




•life 










Class JI.>Z1-S d / 



THE 

11 



OEACLE OF EOMANCE: 

OK, 

YOUNG LADIES' MENTOE. 

I 

I BEING A 

I 

SERIES OF PICTURES, 
I DESiaNED TO ILLUSTRATE LIFE. 

i 
iii . 



BY A LADY. 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO., 

PUBLISHERS. 






.Ai 01^ 



Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY, 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts, 

WRIGHT AND HASTY, PRINTERS, 3 WATER STREET, BOSTON. 



PREFACE. 



Between the preface to a new book and the skillfully worded 
placard whi^h nshers in some new medicine to the patronage of the 
■ic, there is this similitude — ^they are but seldom read. For most 
..ens receive a new book as they wonld some new medicament — if 
it happen to please their taste and meet their present necessities, they 
swallow it complacently. If not, they throw it aside with indifference, 
perhaps disgust, reckless of the mental toil with which the writer, 
like the pharmacentist with his medical arcanum, may have heralded 
his freshly prepared compound of words. 

To those however who may glance over these few prefatory lines, 
the writer would say a few words. Of the number, there may be 
those, to whom some of the following tales, illustrative of Life in 
varied Phases, are familiar. To such, their merits, as their faults, are 
already known. To those to whom they may at least possess the 
charm of novelty, she would briefly say, that in these Pictures of Life 
sketched both in the sunshine of gladness, and in the shades of afflic- 
tion, it has been her aim to impress each with some pleasing moral, 
and give to the play of Fancy, the beauty of virtue and truthfulness. 

C. H. B. 



CONTENTS. 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER 9 

THE PERPLEXED STUDENT 42 

GAITY 77 

THE POET Li. . 121 

LITTLE WINNIE 142 

THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED 163 

THE COUNTESS. 216 

THE CURTAIN LIFTED 244 

THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG 269 



ORACLE OF ROMANCE. 



■^« ♦ •^- 



NELLY, THE E A G-Gl A T H E R E R. 

Near where Canal street now extends its range of 
fine ware-houses and commodious dwellings — where, over 
the broad flaggings, youth and beauty trip so fleetly, and 
the din of omnibus, cart, and cab is unceasing, there stood, 
about the year 1809, a low, dark, dismal stone building, 
which had more the air of a prison than any less 
equivocal residence. Upon the ground floor there were 
but two windows, and those were boarded over, excepting 
one row of cracked and dirty panes at the top. The win- 
dows on the second floor were always tightly closed by 
heavy wooden shutters, once black, but now discolored 
by time and rain to a hue even more dismal. The house 
stood a few rods back from the street, and was inclosed 
by a board fence, so high as entirely to prevent any one 
from looking into the yard, which was one mass of tangled 
weeds and filthy rubbish, where at every step the miry 
soil yielded beneath the foot, or after a rain became as a 
loathsome, stagnant pond. » 

This part of New York was called the " Collect." It 
was then aljiost a swamp, and so remained for many 
years. Of course, it was deemed unhealthy — the hot-bed 
of fevers and agues; and, for that reason probably, while 
both above and below and on each side, the hand of 



10 NELLY, THE EAG-GATHERER. 

improvement and wealth was rapidly extending streets 
and erecting noble buildings, this, the " Collect," re- 
mained almost an isolated spot — the rendezvous of thieves 
and assassins — and rendered also even more famous by 
many idle tales of superstition, so that this building stood 
year after year apparently untenanted, growing more and 
more gloomy as time wore on. But it was not so. Every 
day there might be seen issuing from the narrow gate- 
way, an old, miserable-looking woman, in perfect keeping 
with this abode. Her di-ess, although clean, was of the 
coarsest and most scanty materials, eked out with shreds 
and patches of every shape and hue. An old tattered 
shawl was thrown over her bosom, her arms were nearly 
bare, she wore no stockings, and her slip-shod, ragged 
shoes, were fastened around her ankles by twine or bits 
of rags. A straw bonnet, of most unseemly shape and 
color, was pinched down over her face and tied under the 
chin by an old dingy black handkerchief. Over her 
shoulders she always bore a greasy, brown bag, and in 
her hand one of those long, wooden poles, with an iron 
hook attached to either end, denoting her occupation as 
Rag-gatherer. 

Long used to stooping amid the dirt and rubbish, her 
form had become bent nearly double, and day after day 
she might be seen prowling around the principal streets, 
sometimes about the dry goods stores, or scraping every 
little rag and refuse from the gutter and drains near the 
residences of the more wealthy citizens. So miserable 
was her appearance, that frequently some charitable per- 
son, touched by her decrepitude and poverty, would drop 



NELLY, THE RAG- GATHERER. 11 

at her feet a few pennies, and even silver coin, which 
Nelly, as she was called by the shop-boys and servants? 
would greedily pick up, mumbling us she did so a few 
almost unintelligible words of thanks. Only a few hours 
of each day did Nelly devote to her strolls, she would 
then return to that wretched, dreary dwelling, and in- 
spect and arrange her filthy store. The rags she would 
wash and hang over the tall, rank weeds, meet to bear 
such fruit ; and if, perchance, any thing of more value 
had fallen to her luck, as was often the case, it was care- 
fully hoarded away. No one was ever admitted within 
those walls, yet sometimes a beggar would waylay even 
this poor wretch as she entered her gate, nor were they 
refused aid : if but a penny or a crust, the Eag-gatherer 
bestowed her mite. 

Had she lived in the days of Salem Witchcraft, Nelly 
would assuredly have been hung for a witch, nor did she 
even now escape suspicion of belonging to that worthy 
sisterhood. As no light, however dim, was ever seen 
gleaming from those dingy panes, it was averred by cer- 
tain knowing ones, that the nights of poor Nelly were 
passed in the society of the " Old Scratch; " and more 
than one person testified that she had been seen sitting 
upon the top of the fence in the shape of a large, black 
cat, glaring so frightfully, that the whole marsh became 
illuminated by her fiery eye-balls. Others said the 
*' Old Scratch.^' with proper politeness, occasionally re- 
turned these visits incog., and might be heard in dark, 
stormy nights, when the wind howled and the thunder 
rolled, growling around the gate. That she had made 
league with this same respectable gentleman, there was 
no doubt ; her rags were assuredly transmuted to gold and 



12 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

silver, for the chink of the hard dollars and guineas was 
said to be heard as plainly as the ten-pin balls of a 
neighboring alley. Sportsmen affirmed that frequently 
when they had come snipe-shooting in the vicinity of the 
old Rag-gatherer's house, the snipes had acted as if they 
were bewitched — paying no regard whatever to their shot, 
but merely turning tail, with a hit-me-if-you-can air, 
flew lazily over the old fence. As guilt is always more 
or less superstitious, these very reports rendered the Rag- 
gatherer probably more secure in her castle, for even if 
she had the luck of changing rags to gold, the thief pre- 
ferred knocking a gentleman genteelly upon the head in 
Broadway or the Bowery, to venturing into the den of 
one so near to the devil ; for, although performing his busi- 
ness in the most faithful manner, he seemed to have a 
strong repugnance to facing his employer. 

It was a chilly day in Autumn, that, as Nelly was re- 
turning from her daily toil, her attention was attracted by 
a young woman who seemed nearly fainting upon the 
damp ground, her head reclining against a rough stake or 
post, while crouched shiveringly at her feet was a little 
girl, apparently about six years of age. Nelly was not 
unfeeling — the heart which beat beneath that wretched 
covering was more alive to pity than many which throb 
beneath a silken zone ; so she stopped, and in a kind 
voice demanded the cause of the poor woman's distress. 
In tones broken by grief and pain, her little story was 
told in a few words. She was dying, she said, of want — 
her husband, after a long sickness, had been buried only 
a week before, leaving her friendless and forlorn — and 
that, unable longer to pay the rent of a wretched cellar, 
the cruel landlord had thrust her forth with her child into 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 13 

the pitiless streets to die — for die she knew she must, 
there was such a load upon her heart; and were it not 
for her poor little child, she cared not how soon she was 
laid at rest in the quiet grave-yard. Nelly spoke words 
of comfort to her, and assisting her to rise, bade her lean 
upon her, and then taking the little attenuated hand of 
the child in hers, she led them to her miserable abode. 
That shelter which the rich man denied, the Eag-gatherer 
freely gave, and with it — kindness ! In her work of be- 
nevolence, it seemed as if renewed strength and agility 
were given her. She placed her on her straw pallet — 
coarse, but cleanly, she chafed her hands, and poured her 
out a cup of water, which she succeeded in getting her 
to drink; nor, in the meanwhile, had she forgotten to 
give into the hands of the famishing child a generous 
slice of bread. How tenderly she smoothed the pillow of 
the poor young creature, and bathed her throbbing tem- 
ples ! But all would not do — life was evidently ebbing 
fast away. Remembering there was a physician not far 
off, she hastened with all her speed to summon him. 
There was apparently a struggle with this disciple of 
Galen, at crossing the threshold of one so miserable, for 
on tip-toeing, careful steps he entered — just glanced 
toward the bed — pronounced the patient '■'■ well enough ^^'' 
and would have retreated, but the long fingers of Nelly 
seized his arm with the grip of a tigress — her black eyes 
flashed both with anger and contempt, as she said : 

" S>tay I and fear not your services will go unpaid. 
Here is gold for you ! Save this poor woman, if in your 
power, for the sake of that helpless babe ! " 

Although the eyes of the doctor suddenly opened wide 
to the exigency of the case, and although he felt her pulse, 



14 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 



and administered some soothing stimulant, it needed more 
than the hand of man to strengthen anew the *' silver 
cord." Ere morning she died, with her last breath com- 
mending the orphan to the protection of the old woman. 
" As God reads my heart, I promise you your child shall 
be as my own," whispered Nelly, bending over the dying 
woman. "I will protect her and keep her from harm. 
All that one like me can do, I will !" 

The mother fixed her eyes upon the good creature, 
tried to speak her thanks, and then clasping her child to 
her bosom, her wearied spirit sank to rest. With her 
own hands Nelly straitened the body for its final bed — 
from her hoarded gains she purchased a decent coffin, 
and then, when all was ready, she called in a clergyman 
to perform the last mournful rites. In an obscure corner 
of " Potter's Field " the young stranger was buried — UU' 
ivept — U7iknov)n I 

As the hearse disappeared, Nelly again bolted her door, 
and taking the weeping child upon her knee, strove to 
comfort her. She gazed long and tenderly upon the sweet 
face of the little orphan, and it was one which well repaid 
the scrutiny. She was a gentle, timid child, with great 
delicacy of form and feature. Light, golden hair, waved 
in silken ringlets over a brow and neck of dazzling fair- 
ness — eyes of beautiful deep blue, seeming, from their 
mournful cast, to bespeak at once your love and pity, and 
a rosy little mouth, inviting the kiss it so sweetly re- 
turned. Her mother had called her Violet, and Nelly 
had asked no other name. And now this poor old crea- 
ture, so long an object of contempt, and even contumely 
by the crowd, had found something upon which to lavish 
her pent-up affections — a being more helpless than herself 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 15 

to cherish — she so long friendless and unsightly to the 
eye, received now the artless caresses of this pure, 
lovely child. The walls of her dwelling, late so dismal 
and desolate, were suddenly filled with life and music ! 
From the day she had sworn to protect the little Violet, 
old Nelly seemed a changed being. Her tones were now 
low and gentle, her foot-step noiseless, as if she feared 
her happiness all an illusion that the least rudeness might 
dispel, or that the little being she had so learned to love, 
was but a vision which a breath might dissolve ; and, old 
and decrepit as she was, her goodness made her lovely in 
the eyes of the child. 

As Violet grew older, the old woman gradually with- 
drew from her habitual rounds and devoted her time 
more' to the instruction of her young charge. She taught 
her to read and spell correctly — guided her little hand in 
learning her to write, and was continually storing her 
mind with lessons of truth and purity. Words of such 
beauty seemed strange issuing from the mouth of one 
whose life appeared to have been a scene of cruel toil' 
and privation ! She instructed her in all branches of 
needle-work, even to the finest embroidery — yes, those 
fingers, used to plucking the rags and rubbish from un- 
savory sewer's, now threaded the variegated worsteds, 
and beauteous buds and flowers glowed beneath her hand ! 

Allow a few years to pass unnoted, and Violet is again 
before us. She had now reached her fourteenth year, 
and still thought nor wished for other home than the roof 
of the Rag-gatherer. Those four walls were the world 
to her, and there her days had passed in peace and 
happiness. Nelly was usually absent many hours in the 
day, and rarely returned at night. Where those were 



16 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

passed was a mystery she never divulged even to Violet, 
who was employed the mean-while contentedly with her 
needle and in perusing the very few books which the old 
woman had managed to procure. Day after day, as she 
threw her bag over her shoulder to depart, Nelly would 
enjoin upon Violet never to be seen at the windows above, 
and on no account to open the gate, no matter how hard it 
was assailed, and without a murmur Violet had strictly 
obeyed. But one day, and a bright sunny one it was 
too, when she could hear the birds singing, and the in- 
sects chirping amid the grass, Violet, perhaps for the first 
time, pined to be let loose from that dismal old building. 
She tried to sew but the needle slipped away from her 
heedless fingers. She opened her books. How tedious ! 
She had read all that a thousand times. She then went 
into the yard, where Nelly with her own hands had ar- 
ranged a little garden for her darling, but the flowers 
looked sickly and hung their heads, no more contented 
with theif position than Violet. All at once, she found 
herself close to the proscribed gate. Ah^ take care Violet ! 
But what harm could there be in just unbolting it for a 
moment? What harm in just looking into the street ? 
She knew there could be none, and so she timidly drew 
the bolt. The gate yielded to her touch, and, half afraid, 
she stood within the dingy portal. It happened unfor- 
tunately just at that moment, a party of gay young men 
were passing. Struck by her uncommon loveliness they 
stopped and gazed rudely upon her. Violet attempted 
to retreat, but one of them, with consummate audacity, 
seized her by the arm, and addressed her with the most 
insolent language. In vain she struggled to free herself. 
He swore he would have a kiss, and most probably would 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 17 

have succeeded in his brave attempt, had not a smart 
blow across the eyes with a rattan, nearly blinded him, 
and obliged him to release the frightened girl. His com- 
panions had stood by laughing at the distress of Violet, 
and encouraging their comrade to persist, but there was 
another spectator of the scene ; a youth apparently not 
more than seventeen, who enraged at their brutality, dealt 
the blow, and then quickly drawing Violet within the gate, 
bolted it. Now gracefully lifting his hat, he bid her be 
under no uneasiness, for he would protect her from all 
insult. In the mean-while, smarting with rage and pain, 
the party on the outside with furious knocks and gross 
language demanded admittance, and at one time it seemed 
as if the old gate must inevitably yield to their violence ; 
but, tired at length of their fruitless efforts, they desisted, 
and, with oaths of revenge, took their departure across 
the ' Collect,' The brave lad would have waited the re- 
turn of the old v^oman, but Violet begged of him to be 
gone, while in her own artless manner she thanked him 
again and again for the services he had rendered her. 
Reluctantly, therefore, he took his leave — to Violet, it 
was as if the sun had suddenly disappeared from the 
heavens ! 

As soon as Nelly came in she candidly related all that 
had occurred, to which the former listened with much 
agitation, making no reproaches, but for more than an 
hour remained in deep thought, evidently distressed at 
such an unlooked-for circumstance. Suddenly lifting her 
head, she exclaimed : 

" Violet, you must go from me ! " 

" What, leave you — do you bid me leave you ? Ah, 



18 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

forgive your disobedient child. Never — never will I again 
offend you ! " cried Violet. 

" I am not offended, for you have but committed an act 
for which my own foolish conduct must answer, I should 
have known better than to have caged you here so long, 
poor child, but my motives were good. Now we must 
part — perhaps never to meet again, for, when once you 
go forth into the busy world, when you leave these walls 
behind you, the poor Rag-gatherer must no longer be re- 
membered." 

Violet burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart 
would break. 

" Send me away, and tell me I must forget you, too ! 
Oh, I cannot — I cannot." 

Even Nelly herself shed tears, but her resolution was 
unshaken. 

" Listen to me, Violet," said she, " I know a lady 
who is not only rich, but, what is far better, has the credit 
of being charitable. Indeed, more than once have I 
experienced her kindness. To her I will now go. I 
will relate your little history. I will tell her that though 
but the adopted child of a poor, lone woman like myself, 
yet you are good and amiable, and your mind pure as 
falling snow. I think she will at once receive you under 
her roof, and for the rest I fear not. You would steal 
into her heart were it of marble." 

" But shall I never hear from you — never, never see 
you again ? Oh, I had much rather stay with you." 

" You may see me again, and you may not, but on 
pain of my certain displeasure, never to a human being 
speak of or relate your past life — you must forget it en- 



NELLY, THE EAG-GATHERER. 19 

tirely ! Kemember this, and promise me you will not 
again disobey my commands." 

Violet gave the required promise, and the old woman 
continued : 

" You have never been called by any other name 
than Violet — you must now have one. A precious and 
a darling child have you been to my old heart, and in 
remembrance, you shall be called ' Violet Darling.' " 

The next morning Nelly came in bearing a bundle, 
which she handed to Violet, saying : 

" Here, my love, are clothes more suitable for you than 
the coarse garments you have on. I have seen Mrs. 
Ballantyne, the lady I spoke of, and, as I expected, she 
is willing to receive you, not as a domestic, but as a 
companion. One so new as you are to the world she 
thinks she can mould according to her own fancy, but be 
not led, my dear child, to forget the lessons of truth and 
virtue I have endeavored to instill into your mind. This 
afternoon, at four o'clock, you will be sent for." 

Passing over the grief of Violet, at finding herself 
about to be separated from the only friend she had on 
earth, we find her, at the hour appointed, waiting the 
messenger from Mrs. Ballantyne. 

As her eye caught the figure reflected in the old 
cracked looking-glass, it was no wonder she started with 
surprise. A neat white cambric, now took the place of 
the faded, coarse calico she had previously worn ; a blue 
scarf vailed her bosom, and a little gipsy hat, tied under 
her dimpled chin with blue ribbons, shaded her youthful, 
modest face. Thus attired, poor Violet fluttering, trem- 
bling, like a timid bird, shrank from offered freedom. 



20 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 



Mrs. Ballantyne was a gay and handsome widow. 
Her fortieth birthday had already passed, but so lightly 
had time marked these mile-stones to the grave (as some 
one has called them) that, to all appearance, she was as 
youthful as at five-and-twenty. Her complexion, perhaps, 
had suffered, but the brightness of her fine black eye 
was undimmed; her raven hair, still unsilvered, rested in 
rich glossy folds upon her lofty brow ; her mouth was 
small — teeth superb, and her figure retained all its youth- 
ful elasticity and grace. Left a widow at an early age, 
Mrs. Ballantyne, for several years, secluded herself en- 
tirely from the gay world. All her thoughts — all her 
affections — centering in her only child, a lovely boy. 
Report had said the married life of Mrs. Ballantyne 
had been far from happy ; but, if so, she certainly evinced 
all the grief of the most affectionate wife, for, even after 
her son was old enough to be placed at school, she still 
persisted in her seclusion, seeing none but her most inti- 
mate friends, and only relieving the monotony of her 
existence by daily habituating herself to the exercise of 
walking, in which, however, she as constantly refused all 
participants. These solitary walks, so regular, and in all 
weathers, at last gave rise to many ill-natured and un- 
feeling remarks, tending in thfe end to sully the pure fame 
of the young widow. But even while the world whis- 
pered and wondered, Mrs. Ballantyne suddenly gave a 
new impetus to their tongues and conjectural organs, 
by as suddenly renouncing her former manner of life, 
and, casting aside her mourning weeds, stepped forth 
from her darkened chamber a radiant, beautiful woman — 
gay — enchanting — spiriticelle ! 

With' a taste as novel as it- was exquisite, she furnished 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 21 

her splendid mansion ; the elegance of her equipage was 
the topic of the day ; while balls, suppers, and parties, 
followed each other in rapid succession. 

It was now the dashing Mrs. Ballantyne ! 

Her saloon was thronged with the elite of learning and 
aristocracy. She patronized the fine arts, befriended 
the unfortunate, and ^gave liberally to every charitable 
purpose. 

The same mystery, to be sure, still attached itself to 
her private affairs — certain hours of every day she was 
invisible ; but now the world deemed it only an eccen- 
tricity, and as such it passed. Nor was she without her 
admirers. Statesmen and heroes would gladly have laid 
their laurels at her feet, and many a youthful lover 
worshiped at her shrine ; but maternal love shielded her 
heart from all other ties. Under all the apparent frivolity 
of her character, there was much, very much, that was 
truly excellent and noble. Her son was never forgotten — 
he was still the idol of her fondest hopes and affection. 
With talents of high order brought into proper develop- 
ment by judicious instruction, Eugene Ballantyne, at the 
age of seventeen, had nearly completed his collegiate 
course, and had already evinced a strong desire to enter 
the ministry. His health, however, having suffered from 
close application to study, it was deemed advisable for 
him to make the tour of Europe ere he came to any defi- 
nite determination. 

Such then was the person who was to receive the hum- 
ble protege of the Rag-gatherer. What a transition 
from the wretched dwelling of the latter to the luxu- 
riant abode of wealth and fashion, where the very air 
seemed oppressed with its own fragrance ! Yet the mind 



22 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

of Violet, appeared fitted for this refined sphere — so 
strangely had old Nelly even in all her obscurity and 
poverty cultivated this lovely flower. She was like the 
sweet lily of the vale opening its delicate petals in the 
dark wild wood, yet when transplanted to the conserva- 
tory of rare and choice exotics, then only appearing to 
have found its proper sphere ! ♦ 

It was the afternoon upon which Violet had taken a 
last farewell of her childhood's home, with what sorrow 
has been shown, that Mrs. Ballantyne, seated in her pri- 
vate apartment waited the arrival of her protege. It was 
the month of June, and it would seem Flora herself had 
showered this little retreat of the widow with her most 
beautiful offerings. Vases of the most tasteful designs 
were scattered around filled with choice roses — wreaths 
of fresh flowers were suspended over the mirrors, and 
the transparent window curtains were looped with the 
same. The floor was covered by an India matting, and 
in the centre of the room stood a small Egyptian table 
bearing an urn, also of antique model, in which the 
rarest exotics united their fragrance with the less bril- 
liant flowers of our own clime. Upon this table were 
choice prints — rare medallions — etchings, and the walls 
were also decorated with gems from the first masters. 
Silken hangings of a pale rose color drooped in graceful 
folds over a small recess, disclosing within the couch of 
the fair mistress of this apartment, around which fell cur- 
tains of snowy muslin looped here and there with the 
same beautiful bands as confined those at the windows. 

The dress of Mrs. Ballantyne was a pale green silk, 
ornamented with double rosettes of pink satin. The 
sleeves were of the finest lace falling just below the 



NELLY", THE RAG-GATHERER. 23 

elbow, disclosing the beautiful contour of her arm, 
clasped at the wrist by a rich bracelet of emeralds and 
rubirs. Her glossy black hair was parted upon her fore- 
head and gathered in one heavy mass upon the top of 
her head, where it was confined by a shell comb of ex- 
quisite workmanship. In her hand she held a miniature 
of her son, who had that morning returned to college. 
Upon this her eyes were fondly fixed, when a gentle rap 
at the door aroused her from her pleasing employment. 

Bewildered at the beautiful scene before her, so novel, 
so enchanting; confused, abashed, at the presence of the 
elegant woman who now kindly greeted her, Violet stood 
trembling at the entrance, her cheeks suffused with 
blushes rivaling the tints of the roses around her. One 
hand rested upon the polished moulding, the other was 
partly raised as if to shield her eyes from so much splen- 
dor, and one little foot just poised upon the marble sill, 
hesitating to bear its lovely young mistress into a spot so 
strangely beautiful. Mrs. Ballantyne advanced and 
gently taking the timid girl by the hand, led her into 
the apartment, and seated her upon the tabouret at her 
side. She then removed the little gipsy hat, and the 
golden curls leaped gladly forth from their unwonted 
thraldom, and nestled again around their sweet resting 
place. 

At length Violet dared to raise her eyes ; she met the 
encouraging smile, and heard the gentle voice of that 
lovely lady, and her agitation suddenly calmed, her fears 
subsided ; she even smiled in return, and in a short time 
felt she was no longer a stranger. Thus affable and kind 
were the manners of Mrs. Ballantyne. 



24 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

In simple language, and with artless grace, Violet re- 
lated her little history. 

It was not an eventful one, nor had she tales of harsh- 
ness to reveal, no complaints of suffering, her path 
had been a lowly one but without thorns. The goodness 
of poor old Nelly was her theme, and when told that 
she was no more to see her and forbidden henceforth 
even to speak of her, the tears so lately repressed again 
burst forth, until even those of her listener mingled with 
them. Suddenly her eyes rested upon the miniature of 
Eugene. She started, blushed, and faltered forth : 

" ' Tis himself! Oh, madam, 'tis the same who tore 
me from the arms of that bad man ! " 

It was now Mrs. Ballantyne's turn to be surprised. 

" Are you sure ? Why, this is the miniature of my 
son, of Eugene ! " 

" Yes, madam, I am sure. Oh, I never can forget 
that face, never ! " 

Mrs. Ballantyne certainly evinced more feeling than 
there was any necessity for, and at length said : 

" Well, Violet, it may be so ; but you must never 
speak of it again. Should you meet my son, on no 
account betray your indentity with the Rag-gatherer's 
child ! True, she is an excellent old person, but it is 
fitting now you should forget her ; your station in life for 
the future must preclude all allusion to the past ; you 
are now Miss Darling, my ward, my niece, or any other 
title I may claim for you ! " 

The next news in the fashionable world was, that the 
eccentric widow had adopted a beautiful young girl, lovely 
as Juliet, artless as Ophelia, but ere more than one tantal- 
izing glance had been obtained of her fair young face, she 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 25 

was as suddenly removed to a distance from the city, and 
placed at school for the next three years, during which 
Mrs. Ballantyne partially withdrew from her gay career. 
and devdted herself more to literary pursuits, awaiting 
with great anxiety the return of her son from Europe. 
At length the fond mother was made happy ; she once 
more pressed her darling child to her bosom. He returned 
to her in perfect health, and the beau-ideal of manly 
beauty. She was not now for the first time to know that 
his heart and disposition were right. Violet also re- 
turned and met the same kind welcome. 

For the first time, Eugene and the fair ward of his 
mother met. No sooner did the eye of the former rest 
upon the elegant girl presented to him, than a glow of 
surprise and pleasure mantled his face. That sweet 
countenance was strangely familiar to him — where had he 
seen it ? Could it be ? No ! it was impossible — and 
yet, how strangely like the poor girl, he once protected 
from insult ; and Eugene stood for a moment in perfect 
perplexity. Nor was Violet much less embarrassed, al- 
though better prepared for the interview. When they 
were left alone, Eugene said : 

" Pardon my presumption, Miss Darling, but I cannot 
divest myself of the idea that we have somewhere met 
before. Your countenance is so like one which I never 
can forget that I saw several years since in a remote part 
of the city ; it seems to me there cannot be two such 
faces ! " 

Violet blushed deeply ; it was such a pleasure to know 

he had not forgotten poor Nelly's child, and she would 

immediately have confessed herself the same, when 

suddenly the stern injunction of Mrs. Ballantyne never 

2 



26 NELLY, THE RAG-aATHERER. 

to betray herself to her son returned to her, and she 
checked the words already upon her lips. An awkward 
silence ensued, for she had not acquired the tact of coolly 
shuffling off a mal-apropos subject, and as coolly taking 
up another. Poor Violet was a novice in Belle-dom. 

But had she forgotten the benevolent Rag-gatherer ? 
She had ventured to ask Mrs. Ballantyne if she had seen 
her, but was repulsed with no satisfactory reply ; and 
many times she had stolen away from home and walked 
around the city, hoping she might meet her early friend. 
In her researches she had discovered the old dwelling in 
the * Collect,' but as usual the gate was fast, and although 
she waited as long as she dared, no one came out or en- 
tered. At length one day as she was passing down 
Beekman street with Eugene, they saw an old decrepit 
woman busily gathering up rags just thrown from one 
of the houses. Violet bounding from the side of Eugene, 
rushed forward : 

*' Look up, mother, look up, it is me, 7ne, Violet." 

But the old woman without raising her eyes, mum- 
bled : 

" Go away, go away, I tell you, would you destroy 
yourself! " 

" I have looked for you so long, so long, mother — 
must I never see you ? " 

At this moment Eugene approached, and noticed with 
surprise the distress of Violet. 

" Do you know this good woman ? " he asked. 

" Oh yes, yes, she is my — she is — " 

Nelly suddenly raised her head and fixed her keen 
eye upon the agitated girl. Eugene caught the glance, 
a glance so full of meaning. 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 27 

" Woman, who are you? What are you?" he ex- 
claimed. 

Nelly made no reply, but lifting her bag hobbled off 
down the street. In silence the young couple proceeded 
homeward. Eugene saw there was some mystery, but 
had too much delicacy to press a disclosure, and in fact 
he was himself so much agitated at the appearance of 
the old woman, as gave his thoughts sufficient occupa- 
tion. 

Thrown almost constantly together as was Eugene 
and Violet, no other result than a mutual affection could 
be expected, prepared too as their hearts were by former 
occurrences for love. Violet however was unconscious 
of the deep interest E«gene had secured himself in 
her affections, until one day being alone with Mrs. 
Ballantyne, that lady gradually introduced the subject of 
her son's marriage. 

" It had become now," she said, " her greatest desire to 
see him married ; married too, to one of birth, fortune 
and education. Not mere amiability or beauty, or both 
combined, would please her ; she never would consent, 
notwithstanding he was so dear, to his uniting himself 
with any one whose standing was beneath his own." 

As she listened, the vail which had hitherto screened 
her feelings even from herself was removed, the color for- 
sook her cheeks, her lips quivered, her frame trembled, 
and unable to reply to the solicitous inquiries of Mrs. 
Ballantyne at her sudden paleness, she hastily retired 
to commune with her heart upon this new and painful 
disclosure. Happily, as she supposed, her secret was un- 
known, it should remain locked in the innermost cham- 
ber of her heart, for never would she be instrumental in 



28 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

inflicting one pang to her kind benefactress, and Eu- 
gene — and here a crimson blush suffused her cheeks 
— no, he never should suspect that her affections were 
his unsought! 

For several days she avoided Eugene, but her very 
effort to appear at ease when in his presence, only made 
her conduct seem the more strange. 

One evening at an hour earlier than usual she rertired 
to her chamber, and burying her face in the rich 
cushions of the lounge, for some time remained in deep 
and painful thought. Eugene loved her! yes, his own 
lips had declared it ! But feigning an indifference she 
did not feel for the mother^s sake, she had nobly refused 
that love, and sacrificed her earthly happiness at the 
shrine of gratitude ! Occupied with her own sad thoughts, 
she scarcely noticed the opening of the door, until a 
hand was placed lightly upon her shoulder. Violet 
raised her head, and before her stood Nelly the Rag- 
gatherer ! 

To spring from her seat and throw her snowy arms 
around the neck of the old woman was the work of an 
instant. 

" I told you, you might see me again, and I am 
here," said Nelly. " Now tell me, child, what ails you, 
for you have been weeping." 

" Oh, nothing, nothing, dear mother," answered Violet. 

"You never told me an untruth when you were a 
child, Violet, don't begin now. Something ails you, 
speak quick and freely, tell me all, for I must be gone, for 
the first and only time I am allowed to speak with you." 

In a low and broken voice, Violet related all her 
distress and its cause. When she had finished, how 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 29 

great was her astonishment, when instead of the sym- 
pathy she had expected, a low laugh from the old woman 
met her ear. 

" Right, right, it is as I thought. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the 
young man loves you then ! For all madam's fine 
riches her son would consort with a beggar ; good, good ! 
Marry him, yes, marry him, who knows but J may yet 
sip my tea from as dainty a thing as this, ay, and my 
wkie too ! " 

Amazement for some moments kept Violet silent. 

" Is it possible you can be serious ! " she at length 
said. " Would you have^me repay all the kindness I have 
received with such ingratitude ? " 

" Ay, would I, if you call it ingratitude ! But who 
took care of you when you were almost a baby ? Who 
saved you from dying in the street ? Who placed you 
here, I should like to know ? " 

" Oh, I know you were very, very kind — never can I 
be grateful enough ! But I cannot destroy the expec- 
tations and blast the hopes of Mrs. Ballantyne by accept- 
ing the hand of her son, even though he offer it ! " 

" And you prefer that I — I who have toiled and worked 
for you early and late — I, so old and so helpless — 7 who 
' have looked forward to this day as my reward ; you pre- 
fer me to remain in wretched poverty rather than to dis- 
appoint this fine proud madam by doing an act which 
would give me comfort and a home ! " 

"Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" cried 
Vio et, wringing her hands. " I cannot act as you 
wish, and your displeasure is dreadful to me ? " 

" Foolish, stubborn girl," exclaimed Nelly, angrily, 
" take then the only alternative. I have a right to com- 



30 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

mand you, and / will ! Leave this house, leave all your 
splendor, your fine carpets, your beds of down, and 
dainty knick knacks ; leave all, I say and share with me 
the bitter dregs of life. I am old, and your white hands 
must become as sallow and shriveled as mine in my 
service ! You must off with your satins and muslins, 
and don my rags ! Ha, ha, ha, and a dainty beggar 
she'll make I " added the old woman to herself. 

No marble could be whiter than the face of Violet as 
she listened. For some moments she remained immov- 
able ; her stony gaze fastened upon the old woman. 
Fetching a heavy sigh, she at length said : 

" Yes, I will go with you ; I will work for you ; I will 
contentedly resign all this splendor which should not 
be mine, when you my kind and earliest friend are in 
misery and want. Oh, why did you send me from you ! 
But take me with you, I am ready." 

" No, not to-night. Tomorrow at nine o'clock be at 
the gate, you will find it unbolted, in the course of the 
day I will be there," answered Nelly. She then turned 
to depart, her hand was already upon the knob of the 
door, when again she stopped : 

" It is not too late yet to retain all these fine things. 
Think before you again decide, will you accept the 
offer of your lover ? " 

" Never ! " replied Violet, firmly. 

" Then you do not love him, or you would not give 
him up so easily. I don't believe in all your fine talk 
about gratitude ! " 

" Not love him ! " exclaimed the poor girl, " not love 
him ! Oh, heavens, may the sacrifice I am making atone 
for my presumption." 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 31 

*' Well, at nine o'clock then, since you will have it 
so ! " added Nelly. 

" At nine o'clock," replied Violet. 

Violet was not alone in her trouble, for Eugene too 
had sought his mother and disclosed his love. 

" And does Violet know your attachment ? " asked 
Mrs. Ballantyne, hastily. 

" She does, my dear mother, but her conduct is in- 
explicable, for while at one moment I think she returns 
my affection, the next she avoids me — nay, she has even 
refused my love, although my heart tells me I am not 
indifferent to her. Why is it so, mother ? " 

" Why, because Violet is a rational girl. She has 
sense enough to understand how very unsuitable any 
such thing would be ; it is a pity though ! " answered 
Mrs. Ballantyne with more indifference than kindness. 

" Why unsuitable ? Is she not all that is good and 
lovely ? Oh, mother, I can never be happy unless she is 
my wife ! " 

" Oh, nonsense, Eugene ; this is a mere boyish fancy," 
replied Mrs. Ballantyne, " or, if not a mere fancy, it 
must be crushed at once, for you can never marry Violet 
Darling ! " 

" Mother ! " 

" The daughter of a miserable rag-picker, a street 
foundling — a — " 

" Ha ! " interrupted Eugene, " it is the same — the same. 
I was not mistaken, I knew it ! " 

"Yes, she is the heroine of your boyish exploit, as 
she seems to be also of your present folly," answered his 
mother carelessly twisting a ringlet. 

" Mother, mother, don't speak so coldly ; you should 



82 NELLY, THE KAG-GATHERER. 

not have placed us together, for how could I refrain from 
loving ! " 

" Have you no pride," answered his mother, " or if you 
can so far forget yourself, I cannot ! '' 

" Mother, I care not who she is, I care not for what has 
been, it is sufficient for me to know her as she is^ all that 
is most excellent both in mind and disposition — all that is 
lovely in person ! Dearest mother, if she consents, refuse 
not my happiness ! " 

" Leave me, Eugene ; your folly distresses me. To- 
morrow we will talk again upon this subject." 

The morrow arrived ; pale and agitated Eugene entered 
the breakfast parlor ; Mrs. Ballantyne was somewhat paler 
than usual, but Violet did not appear. Half an hour passed 
and still she came not. 

" Poor thing, she may be sick. I think she was look- 
ing wretchedly yesterday," said Mrs. Ballantyne, " I will 
go to her room." 

So saying she hastily ran up stairs, but in a few mo- 
ments returned in great agitation, exclaiming : 

" Eugene, she has gone ! Violet has left us. Read 
that. Oh, indeed, I did not think it would come to this ! " 

As she spoke, she placed in the trembling hands of her 
son a note, which addressed to herself she h|^ found on 
the dressing-table. It simply contained a few incoherent 
sentences, thanking Mrs. Ballantyne for her kindness, 
with prayers for her happiness. " Make no inquiries for 
me," it concluded, " but think of me as of one dead ! " 

Seizing his hat, Eugene rushed to the door. 

" Stop, stop my son ; where would you go ? " 

"To the ends of the earth to find her; don't, don't 
detain me." 



NELLY, THE EAG-GATHERER. 33 

" I know of but one place," continued Mrs. Ballantyne, 
*' where she can have gone, and thither I will accompany 
you. Yes, it is not impossible she may have sought out 
the old Rag-gatherer again for whom she seems to retain 
as great a penchant as ever. How strange ! If not there, 
I am sure I know not where to look for her." 

The carriage w^as immediately ordered to the door, and 
the mother and son set forth on their anxious search. 

At the appointed hour, poor Violet reached the gloomy 
abode of old Nelly. She entered once more that desolate 
apartment, and with the first glance into that darkened 
room, all the scenes of her early life rushed upon her 
mind with strange tenacity. Every thing was so like, 
even to the little three-legged stool on which she had 
eaten her bits of bread, and there in the self-same spot 
was the torn primer from which she first learned to read. 
There hung the same wooden dipper, and there placed 
against the dingy wall was the cracked and jagged platter 
used when Nelly could afford the luxury of meat. The 
old straw-bottomed chair in which the Rag-gatherer re- 
posed her jaded limbs occupied the same corner; and 
above where she herself had pinned them, hung her 
sampler, and a fiower wrought in worsteds. Was the 
last few years then only some delightful dream, and had 
she now awoke to the bitter realization of her unhappy 
destiny? And poor Violet sat down and tried to calm her 
emotion ere the old woman should arrive.. 

An hour or more had passed, when she was aroused 
from her revery by the sudden stopping of a carriage at 
the gate, and the next moment Eugene was at her side, 
and the arms of Mrs. Ballantyne thrown around her. 

" My dearest Violet," she began ; "I cannot lose you, 



84 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

never did I know before how inexpressibly dear you are 
to me. Eugene, my son, I no longer oppose your wish- 
es ; don't speak to me now, don't thank me yet, wait until 
we get home — I feel choked here. We must not leave, 
however, without seeing poor old Nelly ; I must try to 
make her more comfortable. What a close room ! Horri- 
ble ! I will just walk in the scarcely less horrible door- 
yard until the old woman returns. Heavens, what a 
miserable spot ! " 

The conversation of lovers not being very interesting 
usually to a third party, let us not listen. 

It was only a few moments, at least so it seemed to 
Eugene and Violet, when the door opened and old Nelly 
appeared. 

" Ha ! who have we here," she cried, dropping her bag 
upon the floor, " what fine master is this? " 

Eugene sprang to his feet. 

" Who speaks ? " he exclaimed. 

" Ay, and a carriage at the door, too," continued the 
old woman, not heeding the interruption ; " Ah, great 
honors these for a poor Rag-gatherer ! " 

" Who are you, woman?' cried Eugene, seizing her 
arm. " Speak, who are you ? " 

The old woman raised her head — their eyes met. 
" Good Heavens, my mother ! " 



A young romantic girl I married your father. He was 
very handsome — I fancied I loved him. He was rich 
and of a high family. I was ambitious ; and thus, crown- 
ing both my love and my ambition, at the age of seven- 
teen I became mistress of one of the finest establishments 
in the city. Time flew on rapturous wings for a season. 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 35 

and then, too late, I found I had sacrificed m}?- happiness 
to a man who had neither sensibility to appreciate my 
love, nor even kindness to repay the sacrifice. I was not 
a happy wife. He was gay and dissipated. I reproach- 
ed ; this tended to alienate even the slight regard he 
might have felt for me, and it ended in a total rupture. 
Under our own roof we became as strangers ! 

You were born, my dear son, and the dormant affec- 
tions of my young heart sprang into action. I felt I had 
not lived before ! I pressed you again and again to my 
bosom. I bathed your little face with tears of joy. This 
dear boy, my child, my sweet Eugene, was to be hence- 
forth the world to me. I felt myself no longer a neglected 
wife. I no longer regretted the love of my husband. I 
devoted myself entirely to you, and weeks would pass 
without beholding your father ; for strange as it may 
seem, he appeared equally indifferent to the feelings of a 
parent as he had proved to those of a husband. You were 
about six years old when he died a sudden and a dreadful 
death, leaving his affairs in a state of much embarrass- 
ment. Still I doubted not his fortune would prove very 
considerable ; but, alas, when all was settled, a mere pit- 
tance only was my residue ! This news was like a thun- 
derbolt to me. I have said I was ambitious, but not until 
that fatal moment did I know how much so. What could 
I do to avoid descending the ladder upon whose top- 
most round my footing had hitherto been ? And you, my 
fine, my noble boy, were you henceforth to grovel through 
life a poor widow's son — toiling for your education, or 
your hard earnings yielded up to support a helpless moth- 
er ? No, my pride, and, let me add, my affection, would 
not permit it ! I could not use my needle for a mainte- 



o6 NELLY, THE RAG-GATIIEEER. 

nance — neither would I become a teacher, for the instant I 
condescended to either my standing in society would be 
lost, and from this my proud heart rebelled. 

At length a bold and hazardous plan suggested itself. 
I remembered to have read and heard of many instances 
where people had become rich — nay, even excessively 
wealthy, by gleaning the rags and rubbish cast into the 
streets by careless house-keepers and servants. The 
more I thought of this, the more I was impressed with 
the certainty of success should I adopt ihis same odious 
means of subsistence. For a time I acknowledge I strove 
to waive an idea so inconsistent with my manner of life ; 
but it haunted me night and day ; it became as it were a 
vionomania — and at length I determined upon the under- 
taking. Methought my greatest trial would be in parting 
from my boy, for it was necessary to place you in some 
safe hands, as, of course, I must now yield up that undi- 
vided care which had been both my solace and delight. 
I placed you, therefore, at a small select school a few 
miles from ilie city, where at any time one hour would 
carry me to you. This done, I set about my arrange- 
ments. I engaged rooms in a highly fashionable board- 
ing house, to keep up the appearance of wealth, and as 
my widow's weeds of course precluded my mixing in 
society, my time was consequently my own. With the 
half nearly of my little fortune I then purchased this 
miserable, isolated dwelling. 

I found I could disguise my person without danger of 
detection ; not even my nearest friend would have been 
able to recognize me. A dark paint imparted a sallow- 
ness to my complexion, and by using a liiile art in putting 
it on, I made myself look a woman of seventy ! From 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 37 

the hair-dresser I procured a gray wig, a few hairs of 
which I allowed to escape from under my old torn bon- 
net : indeed, so shocked was I at my appearance the first 
time I saw myself in the glass, that I nearly fainted, and 
was even then upon the point of throwing off my wretch- 
ed rags, and renouncing forever a life so disgusting. 

I commenced my hazardous career. In this city there 
are many houses of elegant and genteel appearance, 
where one can go with perfect freedom and do what, and 
as they please — where for a bribe no questions are ever 
asked, nor need you fear betrayal. I hired a small room 
in one of these, kept by an old Jew. It was my custom 
to leave my boarding house as if for a walk, and repair 
to this dwelling ; neither had I any scruples at being 
seen by any chance acquaintance entering a house of so 
respectable an appearance. I was always admitted by 
the old Jew ; here I put on my rags, and was let out 
again through a dark alley opening into the adjoining 
street. Suffice it to say that at my first initiation I 
was so successful as to confirm me more strongly in my 
purpose. Articles of value frequently rewarded my 
gleanings of the sewers and drains — sometimes jewels, 
trifling amounts of money, laces, ribbons, besides the 
common filthy rags, of no value excepting to the paper- 
maker. After a fire especially my profits were not un- 
frequently over fifty dollars ; my wretched appearance 
too, awoke the charity of the passer-by, so that a week 
sometimes would bring me several dollars. I would not 
have legged, but what shall I say, I refused not that 
which was thrust upon me. I each day brought ray pack 
of unseemly gains to this my castle. Here I would sepa- 
rate and arrange them according to their value prior to 



.y.:* 
k 



oS NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 

disposing of ihem to those who always stand ready to 
receive such merchandise. 

Strange as it may appear, in a few years I found 
myself rapidly growing rich, and in my ojcji name was 
able to invest the earnings of '^ Poor Xelhj'' in Bank 
Stocks, &c. But I never felt secure. I had the mortifi- 
cation to find that my frequent absence, so unaccountable 
and so periodical, had awakened much suspicion, and I 
therefore determined to renounce my seclusion of widow- 
hood, and come forth again into the gay world, and re- 
sume the station in society I had never lost, but from 
which I had only withdrawn for a season ; and I now felt 
my fortune was sufficient to keep vie there ! I hired a 
splendid mansion — furnished it in the most elegant 
style — threw off my weeds, and emerged from my chry- 
salis the gay and dashing Mrs. Ballantyne — then still 
young, and as may glass told me, still handsome ! I 
thought now to avoid comment ; but where will not the 
peering eye of curiosity reach, or the tongue of slander 
defile I I found my mysterious conduct stillt he theme of 
animadversion ; so I determined to make mystery my forte. 
I surrounded myself with 77iystery ; I walked as it were 
in a misty and now was only called eccentric ! No one 
neglected my balls, my suppers, my fetes — I became more 
distinguS than ever. 

In the meanwhile I steadily pursued my vocation of 
Rag-gatherer, and you can probably hardly credit me, 
when I say that I became even attached to this manner 
of life. It seemed to me I had two existences, and 
those the very antipodes of society, and I delighted in 
doing justice to both ! As Mrs. Ballantyne I surrounded 
myself with every luxury and elegance ; as poor Nelly, 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 39 

I fared worse than the street beggar. Without grimace 
I drank the dingy water from the rough wooden dipper ; 
in this I soaked the crust of stale bread to appease my 
hunger, and stretched my limbs upon the hard straw 
pallet. I need not have done this ; I might have fared 
like a princess in my rags ; but I gloried in identifying 
myself with poor Nelly. And in the evening my lips 
pressed the exquisite China, or the richly chased goblet ; 
delicate comfits were prepared for my fastidious taste, 
and I reposed myself upon cushions of satin and down ! 
I became again Mrs. Ballantyne. But you, my son, 
were still my idol ; I saw you coming forward in life 
all the fondest mother could wish, and I hugged the more 
the pitiful calling which enabled me to place you where 
your father had stood ! 

Now a sudden fear seized me ; I found the passion of 
avarice fast gaining upon me ; the very nature of my em- 
ployment was conducive to its growth. I shuddered to 
find myself actually gloating over any unexpected treasure 
which fell to my hands, with the same delight I should 
have felt were I in reality the poor wretch I personated. 
To break from its thraldom required a vigorous effort. I 
succeeded. As an atonement for the duplicity (for so I 
must call it) practiced so long upon the public, I now gave 
away large sums to charitable institutions, and sought out 
the poor and miserable to relieve their wants, and in so 
doing, I felt happier than I had ever done before. It 
was at this time, my dear Violet, that the hand of Prov- 
idence guided me to you, as if to confirm my good res- 
olutions. When I closed the eyes of your unhappy 
parent, I solemnly vowed within myself, and in the sight 
of God, to take you to my heart as my own child, and 



40 NELLY, THE RAcM^ATIlEllER. 

that you should share equally with my son the fortune 
which my conscience told me I had surreptitiously ob- 
tained. I soon loved you, yet you were a constant source 
of anxiety to me. I formed the romantic resolution of 
educating you entirely from the world; to keep your 
mind pure as infancy ; and then, when I had led your steps 
along- the perfect path my fancy had opened for yon, when 
my work should be accomplished, the world should see my 
prodigy — a perfect model of beauty, intelligence and vir- 
tue ! 

You were ever a gentle, obedient child, and without a 
murmur sutiered yourself to be left alone all through the 
dreary night, and sometimes entire days. As your mind 
expanded, how I delighted in my air^^ scheme ! It was a 
pleasure for me to insitruct you, and for a lime I relin- 
quished entirely my street rambles, that I might pursue 
your education. It was a wild chimera, of an imagina- 
tion as wild, to suppose you were always to be as con- 
tented in this dreary solitary dwelling until /chose to lift 
the laich of fieedom ; it certainly proved so, for at the age 
of fourteen the old garden could no longer content you. 
Your own act destroyed the illusion, and it was for the 
best. As Mrs. Ballantyne I now received you to my 
arms ; but I trembled for my incognita. I found you ga- 
zing upon me at times with looks so full of wonder ; at 
the sound of my voice you would sometimes start, change 
color, and appear so perplexed, that I found if I wished 
to preserve my secret I must give my charge into other 
hands. 

How happy I felt, my dear Violet, when I found you 
retained all your ati'ection and interest for the wretched 
companion of your childhood — the poor rag-woman ; 



NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 41 

that your elevated sphere had not made you forgetful of 
your humble home; and although you disobeyed my 
injunctions by continually asking in your letters about 
poor Nelly, it was an offence too dear to my heart not to 
be overlooked. 

Need I say,my children, how truly I rejoiced when you, 
the two dearest objects of my love, were brought together 
under my roof, to discover the mutual affection kindled 
in your hearts ! But I wished to probe the sincerity of 
your love, Eugene, for I would not wreck the happiness 
of this dear girl as my own had been ; and I wished also 
to discover if you, Violet, had sufficient strength of mind 
— firmness of principle — to renounce your own happiness, 
that you might not distress her whom you knew but as 
Mrs. Ballantyne, and at the same time attest your grati- 
tude to your early friend, poor Nelly. 

The result has proved my expectations, and fulfilled 
my dearest wishes. Take her, Eugene; she is indeed 
a treasure. The good I have endeavored to do, will, I 
trust, in some measure atone for the double part I have 
enacted so many years. My future life shall be devoted 
to deeds of charity. 

I have sold this wretched dwelling. Tomorrow the 
old walls will tumble down, and with them forever 
disappears " Nelly the Rag-gatherer ! " 
3 



42 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

A LESSON FOE, BACHELOR BOOKWORMS. 



CHAPTER I. 

" From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive ; 
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire, 
They are the books — the arts — the academies 
That show, contain, and nourish all the world." 

Horace Mansfield was rapidly becoming a misanthrope 
— yet stay, that may be too harsh a term to apply to my 
young hero, for, although shunning society, 

" He hated not his fellow-men. 
While from their close companionship he shrank, <*'► 

And in wrapt converse with the dead, forgot 
To wave the mystic wand which must reveal 
The sources, whence flow streams of deeper happiness." 

For, with an almost hermit-like seclusion from the world 
did he shut himself within the narrow limits of his study 
— seldom going thence unless to stroll in meditative 
mood, with folded arms and eyes downcast, through the 
adjoining forest. Earthquakes might shake the globe — 
thrones totter from their base, and kings bite the dust — 
what then ? To him it was no more than the sighing of 
the autumnal blast, sweeping in its course from the mon- 
archs of the wood their gorgeous diadems I 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 43 

Already at the age of twenty-three, he had never felt 
the passion of love, nor looked with deeper emotion upon 
any of Eve's fair daughters, that he did upon the painted 
butterfly glancing in giddy circles before him, and should 
either approach too near, he would probably have brushed 
both from his path with the same stoical indifference — 
pretty, harmless creatures, butterflies and maidens ! 

Now this was a most unfortunate state of things for 
Mr. Mansfield, Senior. A widower for many long years, 
and too much attached to the memory of the departed to 
think of marrying a second time, he had suffered himself 
to look forward with pleased anticipation to the period 
when Horace, his only child, should be old enough to 
take a wife. Ah ! the presence of a young charming 
bride, how it would change all things at the lonely old 
Hall ! What magic would her sweet voice exert — how 
would her lightest footfall thrill his heart with the glad- 
ness of other days ! Bless her bright eyes and her sunny 
smile — already the old gentleman doted upon this ignis 
fatuus of his imagination. 

How great then was his disappointment to find Hor- 
ace, at the age of manhood, too deeply absorbed by the 
Portias and Lucretias of ancient days, to bestow even a 
thought upon living beauties — going back into the dim 
ages of the past, and there falling in raptures over the 
virtues of a Cornelia, or the charms of a Helen, and 
would take to his arms an old, musty, black-letter folio 
with more delight than he would clasp the fairest copy 
of womankind. In vain the old gentleman preached to 
his moody son — in vain tossing upon a sleepless pillow, 
he, night after night, strove to devise some plan to draw 
him from his studies — one day he would propose hunt- 



44 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

ing", another, fishing ; sometimes he would urge travel, 
or suggest a winter in the city. But looking up with a 
dreamy air, Horace would only shrug his shoulders, utter 
something between a yawn and a groan, and then plunge 
anew into the labyrinth of by-gone ages, or puzzle his 
brains with some metaphysical question. Besides, 

" He was in logic a great critic, 

Profoundly skilled in analytic ; 

He could distinguish and divide 

A hair 'twLxt south and southwest side. 

In mathematics he was greater 

Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater, 

Besides 'twas known he could speak Greek 

As naturally as pigs do squeak !" 

" Confound all books !" would the old gentleman ex- 
claim. And indeed had books been as rare as in the 
days of the worshipful Knight of La Mancha, how gladly 
would Mr. Mansfield have emulated the zeal of the 
worthy curate and barber, and consigned to the flames 
those silent yet sorcerous enemies to his hopes. But 
in these " latter days," when, with the swiftness with 
which one wave chases another, as the speed of thought, 
or the constant dropping of sand in the inverted hour- 
glass, the teeming Press sends forth her offspring, well 
he knew, that from the glowing mass, another. Phoenix- 
like, would arise from its ashes, and its name be " Le- 
gion !" Therefore smothering his fiery ardor, he once 
more looked within his brain for some more effectual 
counter-charm to their enchantments. 

And no wonder the poor old gentleman was out of all 
patience, for it did seem a thousand pities that such 
a fine, handsome young fellow as Horace, should be thus 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 45 

wasting the freshness of his youth, encased like a mummy 
in a catacQmb ! 

And so one day Mr. Mansfield suddenly broke into 
this living tomb, making considerable bustle, too, as he 
did so, by slamming the door, and kicking over a huge 
Josephus — but bless you ! the student heeded it no more 
than he would the dancing of a thistle-down through the 
open window. Dragging a chair not very gently to the 
table, the old gentleman seated himself facing his ab- 
stracted son, where he might have sat unnoticed till 
doomsday had he not taken a pretty sure way of mak- 
ing his presence known, namely, by suddenly sweeping 
his large bony hand over the open page, and hurling the 
book under the table. It must be confessed Horace was 
too well accustomed to this mode of salutation to express 
any surprise, and, therefore, merely raising his head, 
with a long-drawn sigh, he said — 

" Well, father ?" 

" Now I tell you what it is, Horace," exclaimed the 
old gentleman, striking his fist upon the voluminous mass 
of papers before him ; " I can't stand this any longer — 
this sort of life won't do for me. I have borne it as 
patiently as a saint for as many years as you can count 
fingers and toes, and now there must be an end of it. 
I ask you if you don't feel ashamed of yourself, — I 
ask you if you are doing any thing to make your old 
father happy, perched up there week in and week out, 
like a piece of petrified clay, when you should be looking 
out for a wife, and gladdening my old eyes, ere death 
closes them forever, by the sight of your happiness." 

" Why, my dear sir, I cannot conceive of greater hap- 



46 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

piness than these my silent friends afford me," replied 
Horace. 

" Nonsense — I know better ; but I'm not going to argue 
the point with you, — it is only a waste of breath, and I 
am tired of it. Only answer me one question, — will you 
or will you not get married?" 

Horace smiled, shook his head, and tracing a parallel- 
ogram on the paper before him, replied : 

"Methinks, my dear father, it would have been no 
greater absurdity for old Thom'as Aquinas to have doffed 
the cowl, and relaxed his stern visage into the soft simper 
of a lover's smile, than for me to break from these rusty 
fetters, only to yield allegiance to Love's rosy bondage." 

''Fiddle-de-dee ! — Then I tell you what I've a great 
mind to do, — fall into the what-do-you-call-it bohdage of 
Love myself," answered the old gentleman. " Now, 
suppose / get a wife, Horace ?" 

" No doubt, father, a woman would be very useful in 
looking after the house, — really, I think you-r suggestion 
most excellent." 

" Look after the house, you iceberg ! — Mrs. Dimity 
does that, don't she ? No, I want no wife that will be 
forever bustling about in the kitchen and pantry — I want 
society, I tell you — I am tired of sitting like an old soli- 
tary badger, or of smoking my pipe with the 'gravity of 
Robinson Crusoe, with only the cat at my elbow, and 
for amusement counting the flies crawling over the ceil- 
ing, — I am tired of it, I tell you !" 

" Then, father, to be serious, why not get married ? 
I really don't see how you can do better," said Horace. 

''You don't, well, I do, — for, after all, no pretty lass 
would fancy an old fellow like me, and as for the elderly 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 47 

damsels, they would prefer their snuff and tea ; — ^r.o, no, 
I have a better plan than marriage in my head. Harkee, 
young gentleman ! I am going to rejuvenate these old 
walls ; I will fill them with beauty, with sparkling eyes 
and beaming smiles, angels and sylphs shall glide amid 
its lonely chambers, and the music of glad voices ring 
like marriage bells through these old elms !" 

" i)o you wield the wand of Prospero, my dear father, 
that you can thus at pleasure summon such dainty 
spirits ?" said Horace, smiling. 

" You shall see, for tomorrow I start for New York, 
from thence I shall take a trip into Jersey ; — 1 have 
nieces by the dozen, young, glad creatures, as merry as 
the birds, and it shall go hard but I will bring home such 
a charming flock as shall make me young again. So, 
Mr. Horace, revel among your old tomes like a book- 
worm, as you are, while I cry ' Vive la bagatelle ." " 
Saying which, the old gentleman leaped up from his 
chair, cut the pigeon wing with a great flourish, snapped 
his fingers in the face of Horace, and then fairly danced 
out of the room with all the agility of a boy. 

Sure enough it was no joke, the threat which Mr. 
Mansfield had uttered, for, that very evening, Pete was 
despatched to the village, three miles distant, to book the 
old gentleman for the Albany stage, whence the steam- 
boat would bear him to the city, and, at an early hour 
the following morning, the quiet woods around the old 
Hall echoed, not' with the merry peal of the huntsman's 
notes, but with the doleful " Toot-toot-too-oo-ot-toot " of 
the tin stage-horn, dolefully xe-tooted on every side, and 
in a few moments the lumbering coach itself, with its four 
lean, spavined attachees, appeared looming through the 



48 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

fog-, and wheeled up with a desperate attempt at display 
to the door of the Hall. 

" Well, good-bye, Mrs. Dimity," exclaimed the old 
gentleman, slowly descending the steps, and drawing on 
his gloves ; *' have an eye on the boy that he don't starve 
upon his logical chips, and remember, too, to have every 
thing in readiness, just as I told you, — see that the rooms 
are all well aired, — keep Pete busy among the weeds, 
and look out for the strawberry beds, for there will be 
dainty fingers busy there by-and-by, — and don't forget 
to send Pete down to the village for Treble to come and 
tune up the old piano. There, good-bye to you." So 
saying, he mounted to the roof of the stage, where he 
seated himself comfortably by the side of the driver, then, 
with a chuckle and a significant nod toward the still 
closed shutters of his son, he gave the word, *' AlVs 
rtady/' The wheels groaned and shrieked — the coach 
grumbled — Jehu cracked his whip — the horses, looking 
sideways at each other, as if to say, " if we must — 
we must, that's all," stretched their sinews to the task 
and the coach was set in motion. 

Mr. Mansfield once more waved his hand to the house- 
keeper, and then bracing himself to bear the jolting of 
vhe crazy vehicle, was soon rattling over the turnpike, en 
route for Albany. 



CHAPTER II. 



" Mr. Horace ! Mr. Horace ! — dear me, w^hat a boy ! I 
say, Mr. Horace, don't you know your father is coming 
home this very blessed day, with all those city girls, and 
yet here you sit, although it is past five o'clock, in 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 49 

your old dressing-gown and slippers ! — Dear me, Mr. 
Hor-a-ce ! " and elevating her voice almost to a scream, 
Mrs. Dimity, the housekeeper, approached close to the 
elbow of the student, and placed her hand upon his 
shoulder. 

" Ah, Mrs. Dimity, dinner is ready then, — very well, 
don't wait, I will be down in a moment," said Horace, 
without, however, raising his eyes from his book, 

" Dear me ! dear me ! do pray shut up your book, 
Mr. Horace ! " cried the good woman ; "why, bless me, 
they will be here in an hour ! Do now, Mr. Horace, go 
and shave yourself, and put on your new black coat and 
your satin vest, — why dearee me, your beard is as long 
as any old patriarch's in the book of Genesis ! — Come, 
Mr. Horace, I have laid your clothes all out for you — 
Mr. Horace ! Mr. Horace ! there, there ! — Mercy on me, 
he don't hear no more than the dead ! " And poor Mrs. 
Dimity made a second attempt to attract the attention of 
the absent young gentleman, by pulling his sleeve. 

" Ah, yes ; well, Mrs. Dimity, what were you say- 
ing?" 

" Why that it is time for you to make yourself decent 
to appear before the company," replied the housekeeper. 

" For shame, Mr. Horace ; why most young men 
would have been dressed an hour ago, and all on tiptoe, 
like Prince Chorazzin in the fairy tale, to see your beau- 
tiful cousins, — come now, throw away your book, do ! " 

" My good Mrs. Dimity," replied Horace smiling, " if 
you ever read Shakspeare I would ask, ' What's Hecuba 
to me or I to Hecuba ! ' Yet I thank you for reminding 
me of these expected guests, whom I had indeed for- 
gotten." 



50 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

" Forgotten ! dear me, did any one ever hear the like !" 
exclaimed Mrs. Dimity, raising her hands in astonish- 
ment. 

" How many of these cousins of mine do you expect ? " 
asked Horace. " Mere school-girls, I suppose." 

*' All 1 know is, your father said he would bring home 
a whole coach-load, if he could get them," answered 
Mrs. Dimity, " and I have been all the week getting the 
house in order for them — rubbing up the old furniture — 
cleaning the brasses, whitening the linen, and filling the 
store closet with plenty of plum-cake and ginger-nuts ! 
I vow and declare, Mr. Horace, it is absolutely provoking 
to see you take it so coolly, just as if your father was 
only going to bring home a new brood of ducks or 
chickens ! " 

" They will gabble as fast, no doubt," said Horace. 
" I shall be glad, however, if my father finds pleasure 
from their society, Mrs. Dimity ; so far, their presence 
will be a relief to me." 

"Well, well, aren't you going to dress yourself? — 
Mercy on me, if you appear before them in that dishabilly, 
the poor things will think you are Valentine and Orson ! " 

" Rest easy, Mrs. Dimity — I will be in readiness to 
receive our guests. Don't stop longer on my account, 
I beg," returned Horace. 

*^A-hejn! hem! — ^just as sure as I live he will never 
stir a step if I don't keep teasing him ! " said the old 
housekeeper to herself, pretending to leave the room, but 
stopping midway to watch the effect of her previous ad- 
monition. 

In another moment Horace had apparently forgotten 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 51 

everything but the page before him, to which he now 
gave his most rapt attention. 

" How beautiful t " he exclaimed abstractedly — " as A 
is to B, so is C to D — let me see — as X is to Y — so is 
M to N — what harmony ! " 

" Dear, dear, only hear him ! " cried Mrs. Dimity. 
"What is the use of spending so much time if one can^t 
learn? Poor boy, he is always puzzling over A, B, and 
C — well, I don't know much to be sure, but thank 
Heaven, I do know that AB spells ab, and CA spells ca I 
Mr. Horace ! " and this time the vexed old lady shook 
our hero not very gently. 

" Ah yes, true — I had forgotten — well I will go now ; " 
and most reluctantly the student rose from the table, 
and casting ' a long lingering look behind,' proceeded 
to the duties of the toilet. 

Feeling that she had thus successfully acquitted her- 
self of this responsibility, the housekeeper now hurried 
to the kitchen to see if the supp2r was in progress — the 
coffee boiling, and the rolls ready to put in the oven— 
from theace she put her head into the dairy, to look after 
the fine, fragrant butter, and the rich cream set apart for 
the table. The tea-room next demanded her attention — 
lifting the fine damask cloth spread over the tea equipage, 
to discover if the flies had dared to crawl within any 
chance opening, and were now, little thieves, feasting 
upon the delicious cake, the dishes of ruby quince, or 
the lumps of snowy sugar heaped so generously upon 
the social board. Her next visit was to the parlor, sur- 
veying for, at least, the twentieth time that day the 
proofs of her neatness and taste, displayed in its ar- 
rangement, and every time finding a little something to 



52 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

do — a chair to move half an inch to the right, a table to 
wheel a little more to the left — the curtains to be looped 
up or let down — books to move, and the little china vases 
filled with pretty flowers to re-arrange, so as to exhibit to 
greater advantage some favorite blossom ; and lastly, the 
notable old lady took a hurried and satisfactory inspection 
of the chambers, and then hastened to her own little room 
to doff the homely dark chintz gown for a more becoming 
attire, ere the arrival of Mr. Mansfield and his young 
nieces. 

A short time sufficed for her toilet, and Mrs. Dimity 
came forth arrayed in a shining black silk petticoat, re- 
lieved by a short gown or negligee of white cambric 
falling just below the hips, and ornamented with a broad 
ruffle neatly plaited, and her gray hair combed smoothly 
back under a cap of the whitest and stiffest lawn'. But 
of all her earthly possessions, that which the old lady 
most prized was the gold spectacles which Mr. Mans- 
field had presented her on Christmas, and these she had 
now mounted, together with the large silver watch once 
the property of her deceased husband. In this becoming 
and tidy garb, she now paused before the door of Hor- 
ace's chamber. 

" I may as well give him a call," said she, " for just 
as likely as not he is off in one of his absent fits again." 

She listened a moment, — all was still — tap-tap-tap — 
no answer — tap-tap — " Mr. Horace ! " — knock, knock, — 
" Mr. Hor " — knock, — " ace ! — Come, are you ready, 
Mr. Horace ?" And the good lady, now quite out of 
patience, shook and pounded the door as if the house 
was on fire, and unconscious of danger, the inmate of the 
chamber calmly sleeping. 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 53 

" Yes, Mrs. Dimity, yes, yes, I am coming, I hear," 
said the voice of Horace, aroused at length by the din. 

Even as he spoke, the winding of the stage-horn 
proclaimed the approach of the travelers. 

" Mercy on me, here they come ! There — the coach 
is now turning into the great gate, — do make haste, do, 
Mr. Horace." And as rapidly as she could the old lady 
descended the stairs, and throwing open the hall door, 
stepped out on the piazza to receive them. Horace almost 
mechanically followed close behind her, — but, to the 
horror of the worthy housekeeper, all her labor of speech 
had been thrown away, for there he stood in the full 
glare of sunlight, still in robe-de-chambre and pantouffles, 
his beard unshorn, his hair disordered. 

"Good gracious, Mr. Horace! Do go back — you 
look like a fright — pray go quick, — I will say you are 
sick, or out, or any thing, only don't stand there in such 
a trim." 

But it was too late. The driver cracked his whip — 
the horses bounded forward, and the crazy old coach 
drew up to the door. 

Merry peals of laughter met the ear, and the music of 
young, girlish voices, — bewitching little straw bonnets 
clustered together, and taper fingers and snowy wrists 
rested upon the old brown sides of the coach — then sud- 
denly these were withdrawn, and fluttering vails thrown 
back, and out blazed a galaxy of the most brilliant orbs, 
all fixed with mischievous glance upon the person of our 
hero, standing ready to assist their egress from the 
stage. 

Agile as sylphs, out they sprang upon the bright green 
turf, and gathered around poor Horace, whilst Mr. Mans- 



54 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

field, his good-humored face all in a glow of delight, 
slowly dismounted. 

" You need not laugh you little jades, I am not as 
young as you are ! — Ah, Horace, my boy, how are you ? " 
cried the old gentleman. " Bless me, why don't you sa- 
lute your cousins ? Never be bashful, man, — here, this 
is your cousin Kate, and this is her sister, Lucy Mans- 
field, and here is my stalely Constance, and this, the 
mirth-loving Gabriella Lincoln, and this is roguish 
Bessie, and this little — hey, where is Meg ? — ah, there 
she goes, the gipsy, skimming over the lawn like a lap- 
wing ? " 

And each fair cousin in turn presented a rosy cheek 
to the salute of the embarrassed Horace. 

" Well, girls, welcome to Mansfield Hall," continued 
the old gentleman, as the gay party tripped up the steps 
of the portico. "Here, Mrs. Dimity, I make over these 
merry girls to you. Show them their rooms, if you 
please, and then let's have supper, for this long ride over 
the hills has given me a pretty sharp appetite. Hark ye, 
girls, you need not stop to beautify yourselves ; there is 
nobody here but your old uncle to see you, for as for 
your cousin Horace, he will never look at you, or fall in 
love with you." 

There was more than one arch glance cast toward the 
spot where Horace stood leaning against one of the pil- 
lars, feeling, it must be confessed, a little foolish at this 
blunt speech of his father, — and more than one little head 
was saucily tossed, ere the fair girls disappeared with 
Mrs. Dimity into the house. 

" Nice girls, Horace, full of life and spirit ! " exclaimed 
Mr. Mansfield, slapping him on the shoulder. " Bless 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 55 

their sunny faces, why they have made me young again ! 
— Hark, did you ever hear such music as that? "as a 
joyous laugh rang oUt upon the summer air from one of 
the upper windows. " Ah, I see you, minx ! " shaking 
his cane at a mirthful face peeping down upon him 
through the fragrant sweet-brier, which clustered around 
the casement. 

Horace quickly retreated into the hall, and passed on 
to his chamber, his ears yet ringing with that happy, 
merry laugh. 

CHAPTER III. 

Tea was over ere Horace came down stairs, notwithstand- 
ing the repeated summons of the housekeeper — and to 
his credit be it said, his appearance was now much more 
becoming the society of such charming young ladies, 
than the negligent attire in which he paid his first devoirs. 
As he drew near the open door of the parlor, a skillful 
hand swept over the keys of the piano, as if to test its tone 
and finish, and then, above the music of gay voices arose 
the .enlivening air of a waltz, and by the time Horace en- 
tered the room, the whole bevy of fair girls were tripping 
it like so many fays to the lively music, — all, except the 
charming musician, Gabriella, who, with her head bent 
archly over one shoulder, while her fingers swiftly swept 
the keys, nodded gaily to the dancers as they flew past 
her in the giddy waltz. Round and round on twinkling 
feet they airily glide — forms all lightness — arms entwin- 
ing, and rosy lips parted with smiles that would vanquish 
St. Anthony, — gently and lightly round and round they 
float. For a moment or two the delighted old uncle con- 



56 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

tents himself with humming the air, and beating time 
with hand and foot, then, skimming into the circle, he 
throws his arm round little Meggiej and away they twirl 
with the rest — twirling, whirling, rising, sinking, round 
and round — and faster Gabriella touches the keys, and 
faster fly the merry waltzers. Now they take a wider 
circuit, and nearer — ever nearer to the spot where Horace 
stands entranced, they come circling on, their floating 
ringlets mingling with his breath, and bright eyes gazing 
roguishly into his, as round and round they circle past — 
while round and round in bewildering maze the brains of 
Horace are circling too ! Are these beautiful forms real 
he sees before him? Do such fair beings indeed exist; 
and like the maidens of old who enticed the angels from 
their pure abode, are these bewitching forms about to 
turn him from the cloud-land in which he had so long 
loitered ? But the gay measure suddenly ceases, — and 
panting and laughing, each fair waltzer sank down. 

" Whe-w-w — you good for nothing little rogues, you 
have made my old head spin like a top — steady — steady 
— take care — there I am safe ! " cried the old gentleman 
plunging down upon a corner of the sofa. " Ah ! are 
you there, Mr. Diogenes ? — why where's your tub ? " 
addressing Horace. 

And as if for the first time aware of his presence, six 
pair of bewitching eyes turned full upon our hero. 

" I have been a silent spectator of your enjoyment, fair 
cousins," said Horace, bowing to the lovely circle. 

"Indeed ; but not a participator, of course," remarked 
Gabriella. 

" Why of course not," added Kate * " our folly can 
only be annoying to our cousin." 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 57 

" You wrong me, Miss Mansfield," said Horace ; " I 
assure you that in the present instance I believe the spec- 
tator enjoyed even more than the performers." 

" And you'll dance with me next time. Cousin Horace, 
won't you ? " cried little Meg-gie, the youngest of the six 
fair girls, not yet in her teens, tripping across the room, 
and catching his hand. " Come, Constance is going to 
play for us." 

" For shame, Meggie ! " exclaimed Constance gravely, 
lifting her finger in reproval — "how can you thus annoy 
your cousin ! " 

" Pray do excuse the child — she is very thoughtless — 
I beg you will not heed her foolish request. Fie, Meg- 
gie ! " added Gabriella. 

" Never trouble yourselves, girls," exclaimed Mr. Mans- 
field ; " not even the charmed fiddle I read about when a 
boy, were it in the hands of old Orpheus himself, could 
make our solemn scholar here cut a single caper ! " 

Horace felt exceedingly annoyed. '♦ Is there not a 
charm more potent here, my dear father ? " he said, 
smiling at little Meg. 

" Ah yes, you will dance — there, I knew you would. 
Constance — Kate — Cousin Horace will dance ! " exult- 
ingly cried the little gipsy. 

Constance arose, and taking the little girl by the hand 
drew her away, saying, at the same time, in a most grave 
and earnest manner, which her laughing eyes more than 
half belied, 

" Cousin Horace, as we are to be the guests of my 

dear uncle for some weeks, we trust you will not out of any 

courtesy to us, neglect or forego those pleasures so much 

more congenial to you — we know the study, not the draw- 

4 



58 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

ing-room, is the spot where you most love to be, and 
therefore to feel that our presence here compels you 
through politeness merely, to forsake it, would cause us 
all much chagrin — is it not so, girls ? " 

" True, Constance — 1 am sure my visit instead of be- 
ing a pleasure, will only be a vexation, if Cousin Horace 
sacrifices his own enjoyment ! " said Kate. 

" And so will mine — indeed it will ! " cried another. 

" And mine," added a third, " and besides, our dear 
uncle is so kind, and has so many plans for our amuse- 
ment, that I really don't see any necessity for Cousin 
Horace to waste a single moment upon us ! " 

" You see how it is — so banish all restraint, and let 
not another minute of your valuable time be thrown 
away," said Constance in a grave and decided manner. 

" And here," cried Kate, demurely handing him a little 
silver candlestick, " is a light — and now do, dear cousin, 
return to your books, and give yourself no trouble about 
us." 

In vain Horace tried to speak — in vain he essayed to 
refute the charges they were heaping upon him — his 
tongue refused all utterance. He looked to his father for 
assistance — but just at that moment the old gentleman 
was engaged in a desperate battle with a horned-beetle, 
which with flying handkerchief he was chasing from 
corner to corner — and so poor Horace suflfered himself to 
be bowed and courtesied out, by his kind considerate 
cousins ! 

Then — such a peal of joyous mirth as followed him up 
the study stairs ! what could it mean ? "'Ah, doubtless," 
he thought, " they are laughing at some droll sally of my 
father." 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 59 

Poor Horace ! 

Sleep was almost a stranger to his eyes that night — 
his pillow, haunted by the strangest visions. Was he be- 
witched ? for the room seemed filled with light airy figures. 

" They stood beside Ms head, 
Smiling thoughts, with hair dispread ! 
The moonshine seemed disheveled." 

Or, if he closed his eyes, he saw them still floating around 
him, and bright eyes like shooting stars were continually 
darting across his vision, while like the murmur of forest 
brooks were the gentle voices whispering' in his ears. 
And when at length he slept, he dreamed of the glitter- 
ing harem of the Vailed Prophet — of the bewitching Ze- 
Ijca, and of the still more fascinating indwellers upon Ca- 
lypso's enchanted isle. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A SUNBEAM Stole a kiss from the brow of Horace and 
awoke him, while at the same moment a chorus of merry 
voices came up from beneath his window, reminding the 
half-bewildered student that it was not all a dream — the 
visions of the night. 

Yes, there they were, the whole happy troop, in the 
most bewitching morning dresses, enjoying to their bent 
this lovely summer morning in the country. Without a 
saddle, bonny Kate had sprung upon the back of his fa- 
vorite pony, playfully patting his arched neck and coax- 
ing him to a fleet gallop over the greensward — and now 
away, away they bound across the lawn, shaking down 
the glittering dew drops from the old elms, and the long 
beautifi.il hair of Kate floating in luxuriant af/aiidon on 



60 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

the soft breezy air. Constance, the stately, dignified 
Constance, mounted on the brink of the horse-trough, is 
clapping her hands at the gambols of some half-dozen 
little porkers in the pig-sty, and tossing green apples into 
the voracious mouth of Madame Mere. Gabriella, with 
her neat pink gingham carefully tucked up around her 
cunning little ankles, has seated herself upon the milking- 
stool, taking a lesson from the tall, laughing Irish girl, 
while at a little distance Bessie and Lucy, surrounded by 
a noisy chattering brood of fowls, from the stately turkey 
to the tiniest unfledged chicken, are scattering among 
them hand tills of the yellow grain, which they have just 
brought ill their aprons from the corn-crib. A merry 
shout — and from a little thicket out springs merry Meggie, 
with a long fish-pole trailing after her, and in her hand 
a bunch of shining trout, while with a loud "AaZZoo" 
the old gentleman himself follows close behind her, cry- 
ing out — 

" Ah, you mischievous monkey, will you spoil my best 
rod, and run away with my fish to boot ! " 

"New times these, Mr. Horace!" said Mrs. Dimity, 
close at the elbow of the student, ere he was aware of 
her presence — for be it owned, his senses were all ab- 
sorbed by the novel and beautiful scene from his window, 
where concealed by a half-closed blind, he had been look- 
ing out upon the cheerful abandon of his fair cousins. 
*' Dear me, it makes me think of my young days, Mr. 
Horace, just to see and hear them pretty creatures ! I 
thought I'd just look in to see if you were fit to be seen, 
for breakfast is almost ready. Now, don't go down in 
that old dressing-gown again. Hark — ha, ha, ha, — well 
I do declare, just hear them happy young things ! Oh, 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 61 

Mr. Horace, look out there, and study them beautiful 
works of God, and let your old books writ by men's 
hands alone. Bless their hearts — well, well, I must go 
down, or that careless Bridget will send in the broiled 
chickens wrong side up. Now do pray put on your coat 
like a Christian, and brush your hair — 6o, there ! " — and 
suiting the action to the word, by pushing her own gray 
locks on one side, the good lady hastily patted down 
stairs. 

When Horace entered the breakfast parlor, they were 
all assembled around the table, and all busily discussing 
their plans for the day's amusement. 

A seat had been reserved for him between his father 
and Meggie, and with a cheerful smile, his hair brushed 
so, after Mrs. Dimity's model, Horace advanced to the 
breakfast table. His morning salutation was returned 
with the most bland politeness by each smiling girl, and 
the conversation his presence had but slightly interrupted, 
resumed. 

" Uncle, I am of Kate's mind," said Constance. " A 
sail on the lake this lovely morning will be perfectly en- 
chanting. I will take my sketch-book, for I know there 
must be some charming scenes for the pencil." 

" Do you propose a sail this morning ? " asked Horace. 

" We have thought of it," replied Constance, with a 
slight bend of her queenly head. 

" Now is it a very romantic spot, uncle ? " said Kate 
with an arch face ; " is it a sweet place for lovers ? Are 
there any melancholy willows sweeping the translucent 
surface with their graceful branches ? " 

" Plenty of them, you jade, and plenty of golden pick- 



62 TIIK TERPLKXED STUDENT. 

erel and tine speckled trout, which is more to my fancy," 
answered Mr. AlnnsfieUl. 

"And mine too,'' cried Gabrielln ; " so while Con' 
draws iVoni nature lor the enlertainnienl of the imagina- 
tion, I will draw those same fish from the bosom of the 
lake for the better entertainment of our appetites ! " 

** At what hour do we go ? " asked Bessie ; " for my 
part, I am impatient to be ofi'! " 

" About nine, I think," replied her uncle. " We will 
row to the opposite shore, ramble about awhile, lunch, 
and be back in lime for dinner. Put up some gimcracks, 
]\Irs. Dimity, for the girls, and something a little more 
substantial for me." 

** Excuse me, father," interrupted Horace, '* if I suggest 
the afternoon as the best time for the sail ; the shadows 
which then rest upon the lake and the woody slope be- 
yond are most beautiful, and will present more attraction 
for my cousin's pencil than the hour you propose." 

"Why, the girls prefer the morning, you see, Horace, 
and it makes not a jot's ditierence to me," answered Mr. 
Manstield. 

" Nor to me certainly," continued Horace ; •* any hour 
you prefer, lair ladies." 

" 0, of course, it can make no ditierence to you ! " said 
Gabriella twirling her spoon. 

*' Not in the least," chimed in Kate ; " for you will 
most probably be wandering amid the Pyramids, or 
searching out the source of the Nile, or gliding down the 
yellow Tiber, while we ' float merrily, merrily, merrily 
float o'er the waters blue ' of this beautiful lake uncle 
tells of!" 

" But, mv dear cousin, I have no idea of such exten- 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 63 

sive wanderings as you propose for me," replied Horace 
smiling-, " for I intend to devote the morning to your 
society." 

" Oh, no — no — no ! " chimed in every voice ; " indeed 
you must not think of it ! " 

" Have you so soon forgotten our conversation of last 
evening?" asked Constance reproachfully. 

** I assure you it will indeed be a happiness, a relief, 
a—" 

" No — not a word, not a word ; now really we will all 
take the stage tomorrow morning and leave the Hall and 
our dear uncle, if you still insist upon regarding us in 
the light of strangers ! " exclaimed Kate with the greatest 
earnestness. 

" You mistake me entirely, I assure you — " 

" No — no — no, we will not hear of it ! " 

Again Horace looked to his father for help in this per- 
plexing dilemma, but the nose and chin of the old gentle- 
man were buried in his coffee cup, his head thrown back, 
and his eyes most pertinaciously fixed upon the ceiling. 

Up sprang the lively girls. " Come, away for our 
bonnets, come ! " cried Gabriella. 

" Dear cousin Horace," whispered little Meggie, com- 
ing close to him, " do go with us, now won't you ? Do ! " 

" Meggie, Meggie ! " said Kate, putting her head in at 
the door, " come this moment, and don't be teasing in 
this manner ; really you should have been left at home ! " 

" Clever girls, Horace, and make themselves at home 
just as I want to have them," exclaimed Mr. Mansfield. 
" Now some silly conceited things would have taken airs 
upon themselves, and not been contented with an old 
fellow like me to beau them about, when such a nice 



6-4 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

young man as you were to be had ; no — no — these girls 
understand themselves ; don't you enjoy it, eh ? " 

" Perhaps, father, it will be more polite in me to make 
one of your party this morning ? " 

" Pooh, nonsense ! don't trouble yourself; you know 
what Constance told you." 

" True, but that was fastidiousness. I am sure you 
would prefer my going." 

" Not at all. I am convinced at last that society is 
really irksome to you, and now, my dear boy, I am going 
to let you do as you please. I have plagued your life 
out for half a dozen years, urging you to marriage and all 
that sort of thing, but henceforth, you are free to enjoy 
your silent friends up stairs to your heart's content." 

" Come, uncle, we are ready. Good-bye to you, cousin, 
and a pleasant time ! " said Kate, with a mischievous 
glance at Horace, who stood biting his lips with ill-con- 
cealed vexation. 

It was very ungrateful, doubtless, in Horace not to feel 
himself perfectly free and comfortable, when his cousins 
had taken so much pains to make him so ; but somehow, 
he never found himself so ill at ease, and instead of go- 
ing up into his study and sitting down to his books, as he 
undoubtedly should have done, he strolled forth into the 
garden, and from thence into the little grove beyond. But 
go where he would, he could not get rid of his torment- 
ing thoughts ; or, if for a moment they turned into their 
wonted channel, his eyes were sure to rest upon some 
dainty footprint in the moist gravel, and whew, they were 
off again in a tangent! 

Poor fellow ! it was no place for him where such 
witching spells were cast on every side ; and so he once 



^t 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 65 

more sought his study, where surely no such fantastic 
visions could gain an entrance. Ah, it was quite a relief 
to him to repose himself once more within its quiet 
limits; and turning over the pages of Euclid, he en- 
deavored to fix his attention once more upon his favorite 
pursuit. And to prove the practicability of a course 
which may seem so ^practicable, his progress shall be 
faithfully reported. 

" How perfectly absurd it is for those girls to act as 
they do ! " he exclaimed, rapidly whirling over the leaves. 
" Ah here it is — let me see, — let AGKQbe two similar — 
there is something uncommonly interesting about Ga- 
briella — parallelopipeds, of which AB and — what superb 
eyes Kate has — and, and — fet me see — KL are two 
homologous sides — the wife of Cassar could not have 
been more haughty than the proud Constance — the ratio 
of — of — and what a queenly step — ratio of — where was 
I ? — AG, no — A — no — confound Euclid — away with it ! " 



CHAPTER V. 

" How far did you say it was to the Glen ? " asked Ga- 
briella, as they rose from the dinner table. 

" Only three miles," replied her uncle. " I will order 
out the old carriage, and we'll be there just time enough 
for a pleasant stroll among the rocks and' the babbling 
brooks, as Kate would say, and drive home round by the 
borders of the lake by moonlight — there will be romance 
for you ! " 

" It will be charming ! " cried Kate ; " dear, what a 



^H> THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

nice uncle you are ! " aiul clap|Mng her two lilile hands 
upon his cheeks she gave the old gentleman a hearty kiss. 

" Did you tiiul a subject worthy of your pencil this 
morning ? " asked Horace, bowiiig to Constance. 

'* 1 sketched one or two pretty views," she replied, 
turning away. 

" Will you allow me to look at them i " said Horace, 
laying his hand on the porttolioshe had carelessly thrown 
down. 

" They are not worthy your notice, but such as they 
are, you are welcome to inspect them," answered Con- 
stance coldly, drawing forth one or two landscapes, and 
placing them in his hand. 

Horace started with surprise and pleasure as his eye 
r«:\^ted upon those beautiful and vivid representations of 
the scenery with which he had been familiar from child- 
hood. They were the work of no unskillful hand, — taste, 
genius, culture, were indicated in every line, and he was 
about to express his pleasure, when Meggie, running in 
from the piazza, cried — 

" You are going with us to the Glen, are you not. 
cousin ? Say yes, do ! " 

" Well, y«," replied Horace, drawing her to his side 
and kissing her; " certainly I will go with you, and I 
will gather you some beautiful wild flowers which grow 
high up among the rocks." 

" Cousin Horace, you will spoil that child by allowing 
her to tease j'ou in this manner. Meggie, be still ! I am 
astonished at you, for you know very well the impropriety 
of your request," said Constance. 

" Why so, my lair cousin ? " replied Horace. '* Her 
request is certainly a very flattering one to me, and with 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 67 

your leave I will avail myself of it to join your party to 
the Glen." 

Constance hesitated, when Gabriella, with a half-pout- 
ing air, exclaimed — 

" Indeed, I see you are already wishing us away from 
the Hall, Mr. Mansfield, for you continue to insist upon 
that which you know would mar our enjoyment as much as 
it would yours — ^is it not so, Constance, — girls, is it not 
so ? — There, you hear they all agree with me ; and now, 
unless you really wish us gone, never, never say another 
word about going with us any where. Come, girls, that 
we may not detain our cousin any longer, suppose we 
adjourn to the parlor, and have a little music." 

And gaily nodding a good-bye, each fair lady glided 
past the more than half-angry student, leaving him alone 
to " chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancies." 

" This is ridiculous ! " he exclaimed aloud ; " however, 
your wishes shall be gratified. I will no further trouble 
you with my importunities, fair ladies ! " So sayifig, he 
turned upon hfs heel and strode with a lofty air through 
the long hall, unconscious of several pairs of wicked laugh- 
ing eyes peeping at him through the half-open door of 
the parlor. 

Suddenly a strain of delicious music breathed around. 
He paused. The very air seemed trembling with melody, 
as a rich voice, modulated to the sweetest intonations, 
warbled rather than sang, like a skylark on its upward 
flight, one of Beethoven's most exquisite melodies. Ho- 
race had no power to move ; he stood as if spellbound. — 

" Right hard it was for wight which did it hear, 
To weet what manner music that might be, 
For all that pleasing is to living ear, 
Was th^e consorted in one harmonie," 



68 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

Then the strain melted away "like the sweet south that 
breathes upon a bank of violets." Another moment the 
keys were swept with a rapid hand to a lively prelude, 
and a gay Venetian barcarole was sung in the same sweet 
accents, to which one or two other birdlike voices warbled 
a merry chorus. 



CHAP TEE VI. 

A WEEK passed. Every day some party of pleasure was 
arranged by uncle and nieces without the least reference 
to Horace, who, true to his word, kept himself aloof from 
the society of his cousins. 

There were sailing parties, and rides, and rambles among 
the hills, by day, while at evening, delicious music charmed 
the ear of the student as it swept up to his desolate nook 
— or the sprightly measure of waltz or cotillon told of 
the gay scene going on below, in which he was forbid- 
den, as it were, to join. 

Not that he wanted to — oh no, not he — for he was 
never more bent upon study ! Poor fellow ! how he 
would pace the floor, book in hand, striving to fix his 
thoughts upon its pages — how for hours would he sit 
with head inclined, poring over all sorts of odd figures, 
some of them the queerest things, for all the world like 
the tiniest fairies — but then that must have been all fancy, 
as of course no such " airy nothings " could find " habi- 
tation " here. Then such a chattering, and laughing, 
and constant tripping up and down stairs, and through 
the long winding passages, and away out upon the lawn, 
and under the grave old trees ; why it was as if a whole 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 69 

flock of wild geese were for ever circling about the pre- 
mises, and it was terribly annoying ! To make matters 
worse, he was continually haunted by one particular pair 
of dark melting eyes following him wherever he moved — 
and one particular voice, whose gentlest intonation set his 
heart in a perfect furor ^ — leaping, trembling, fluttering, 
bounding, longing to escape from its prison, and fly all en- 
raptured to bask in the light of those beautiful eyes — the 
eyes of the queenly Constance. 

One day little Meggie tapped at his door, and putting 
her pretty face timidly within, asked if she might enter 
and sit awhile with Cousin Horace. Dear little soul, her 
presence was like a sunbeam to the moody scholar ; he 
kissed her rosy cheek, and drew a chair for her close 
beside his own, listened delighted to her childish prattle, 
and brought forth all his store of pictures for her enter- 
tainment. The morning passed pleasantly to both, and 
from that day the little maid seemed to prefer the society 
of the grave Horace to joining in the rambles of her sis- 
ters and cousins. They soon grew very cosy together, 
Meggie chatting continually, and whenever she made 
her sister Constance the theme, it was wonderful how 
patiently the student laid down his book and listened, 
without once chiding the little chatterbox. When Meggie 
was absent he devoted the most of his time to writing, 
scribbling, and then tearing up whole sheets of closely 
written blank verse or rhyme, and then beginning again, 
and again destroying. He might have been writing a 
poem of almost endless cantos, but as he always care- 
fully locked within a little escritoire the labors of his pen, 
the fact remains undecided to this day. 

But one morning a mischievous zephyr flew in at the 



70 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

window and stole a stray leaf of the student's poetry, and 
wafted it to the feet of little Meggie. She slyly seized it 
and saw that it was addressed to her sister Constance. 
Children are such matter-of-fact creatures ! she saw no 
poetry at all in the matter, only as the paper was ad- 
dressed to Constance, why of course it must belong to 
Constance, so she said never a word, but slyly hiding it 
in her bosom, took occasion to trip out of the room unob- 
served by Horace. 

But it was not long ere the poet missed the precious 
document. In vain he sought among his papers, turned 
over sheet after sheet, rummaged his books, under the 
table, upon the shelves, — in vain, nowhere could he find it. 

Now, if by chance he had about that time visited the 
little summer-house at the foot of the garden, he would 
have discovered that very paper in the fair hand of Con- 
stance herself, who, with glowing cheek, was intently 
perusing its hurried characters. Again and again she read 
it, and then pressing it to her lips, and to her beautiful 
eyes, all humid with tears, she placed it in her bosom. 

Not many days after this, Mr. Mansfield and his nieces 
in a joyous mood met in the little grove. 

" Come, girls," exclaimed the old gentleman, " I think 
our business is accomplished, and now we may give the 
reins with a little more freedom ; yes, yes, I've watched 
him, and I'll lay you a wager the poor fellow is as com- 
pletely sick of his books as one could wish. Why he 
is actually pining away into a very shadow for the plea- 
sure of your society, you mocking little gipsies ! — And 
now what say you, shall we withdraw our liege com- 
mands, — shall we, Constance ? " 

A crimfon blush mantled her f^'?*\j^<=-^ Tf ^y^s surely 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 71 

a very simple question, but one which seemed very dif- 
ficuh to answer. At length she replied — 

" If you really think it would give our cousin Horace 
pleasure, uncle." 

" If it would — you know it would, minx ! Ah, I've 
seen it ; you know he follows you with his eyes wherever 
you move ; and don't he listen as if under some siren's 
spell whenever you open your lips, — don't he, hey ? — ah, 
110 wonder you blush ! " 

" Yes, and he writes verses, too, uncle ! " exclaimed 
naughty little Meg. 

" Hush, hush, child, nonsense ! " said Constance 
quickly, endeavoring to check her. 

" Ah, Con' dear, and some other folks are given to non- 
sense too ; let me see," and drawing from her reticule a 
small folded paper, Kate, with an arch glance at her 
cousin, cleared her voice and began 

" Deem not the heart you — " 
" Kate, Kate ! " cried Constance springing up, every 
feature glowing with indignation. Then snatching the 
paper from her hand, she tore it in pieces, and bursting 
into tears fled from the group. 

" Wk-e-w-w-w ! what's all this, hey, — why what's the 
matter with my grave Constance ? " cried the old gentle- 
man. 

" nothing, nothing, uncle, only that your grave Con- 
stance is in love with your grave son, and our phlegmatic 
student fallen in love with Constance, that's all ! " replied 
Gabriella with a merry laugh. 

" Ha, I thought so ! Kiss me, you jades, every one of 
you, for I am the happiest old fellow above ground," ex- 
clainr-'d ^.Tr. Min'^Hcld cctchi : I^ate in his arms. 



72 THE PEEPLKX^ STUDENT. 

Bat Meggie stooping down, slyly collected the frag- 
ments which Constance had so indignantly scattered upon 
the fresh, bright grass, and hid them in her bosom. 



CHAPTER VII. 

The next morning almost at break of day, Mr. Mansfield, 
wrapped in his dressing-gown, and his face swathed with 
a large red handkerchief, knocked at the door of Horace's 
sleeping-room. 

" Horace, it is very provoking, and I am sorry to dis- 
turb you, but I have a most tormenting toothache — zounds, 
what a twinge ! — and I promised the girls last night that 
I would go with them this morning before breakfast to 
the Glen ; but this deuced tooth, ugh /—and I fear the 
poor things will be sadly disappointed. Now, my boy, if 
you could leave your studies just for an hour or so — ugh ! 
— and take my place — " 

" Certainly, my dear father," cried Horace, springing 
out of bed with great alacrity. 

" Constance, you see, has set her heart upon sketching 
something or other which she thinks will be prettiest at 
sunrise ; but it is a pity to disturb you ! " 

'• Don't give yourself any uneasiness upon that head," 
said Horace, rapidly throwing on his clothes. " I shall 
be very glad to be of service to my cousins." 

" Perhaps after all it will be better to postpone it until 
tomorrow, only it is such a beautiful morning," said the 
old gentleman in a husky voice, and drawing the hand- 
kerchief still closer around his mouth. 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 73 

" no, on no account should they be disappointed, and 
it is as you say, such a beautiful morning ! " exclaimed 
Horace with uncommon earnestness, drawing on his boots. 

" Very well, my son, very well — then I'll make myself 
easy and go to bed again, only I hate to break in upon 
your, studies just to humor the whims of those giddy 
girls. Well, give my love to them, and do, Horace, try 
to be as agreeable as you can, and not be thinking too 
much of your confounded books — zounds, I shall go 
crazy ! — Well, well, cold iron will relieve me ! " 

So saying the old gentleman withdrew, but had no 
sooner closed the door, than he threw off the handker- 
chief, and indulged in a hearty but silent laugh, while at 
the same moment the roguish faces of Gabriella and 
Kate peeped from an opposite chamber. Then placing a 
finger significantly on their lips, with a knowing nod to 
their uncle, they stole softly down stairs, when, no longer 
able to repress their glee, their musical laugh mingled 
with the morning song of the birds. 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! there they go ! Caught at last, Mr. 
Philosopher ! " exclaimed Mr. Mansfield as he saw the 
party setting forth on their excursion. " Here, old lady ; 
look out there ; what do you see ? " 

" Why bless me if that ain't Mr. Horace ! " 

" To be sure it's Mr. Horace ; and now let me tell you, 
Mrs. Dimity, there will be a Mistress Horace ere six 
months are come and gone. Now what do you think of 
that ? " 

" Well, well, now if that ain't a sight, to see Mr. Hor- 
ace a talking and laughing with them pretty creatures ! 
Dear me, dear me, I have lived most long enough ! " 
cried the good woman. 
5 



74 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

" No you haven't — what do you tell that story for ? I 
tell you, you have got to dance at his wedding yet, you 
silly old woman ! " 

As Mr. Mansfield's toothache obstinately continued for 
several days, why of course Horace was obliged to for- 
sake his books entirely, and devote his time to his coiisins 
— a necessity which on the whole, seemed very agreeable 
all round ; and when at length the old gentleman thought 
it prudent to join the circle, Horace still kept his place, 
probably from right of possession, possibly from inclina- 
tion. 

Four weeks of this pleasant visit were already flown, 
and in one more, the charming visitors were to bid fare- 
well to Mansfield Hall and their kind old uncle. 

To Horace this announcement seemed as the parting 
knell to all his happiness. He loved Constance. His 
soul was filled with her image. She was the idol before 
whom all his thoughts bowed down, and for whose hap- 
piness life itself were too slight a sacrifice. But he dared 
not tell her this \ for in the lofty bearing of Constance, in 
her reserve, and evident avoidance of his presence, he 
read not only indifference, but scorn ! 

Ah, little skilled was he in the heart of woman ! 

It was the evening previous to the departure of the 
cousins. Dell and dingle had been visited for the last 
time, the last sail upon the beautiful lake had been taken, 
the last ramble to the favorite Glen ; and now with sad- 
dened hearts and countenances, the party once more as- 
sembled upon the little portico to talk over past joys, and 
to anticipate joys as bright in future visits to the old 
Hall. 

Turning suddenly to Horace, who was slowly and 
thoughtfully pacing up and down, Gabriella said. 



THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 75 

♦'Now, Cousin Horace, just listen. Do you agree 
with Kate that love can make a poet out of a dull, prosy- 
scholar ? " 

" Why not, coz, since ' Love can transform an 
oyster? ' " replied Horace smiling. 

" Ah ! but answer me seriously now. Do you believe 
one of your prosaic scholars could be suddenly trans- 
formed, through the power of Cupid, into a scribbler of 
verses — a rhyming sentimentalist ? " 

Horace was embarrassed, while Constance drew up her 
beautiful head with an air of disdain, as if the subject in 
debate were certainly a very foolish one, and unworthy 
any one's attention. 

" Why you know, dear Kate,'' said Horace, at length, 

" what the greatest poet the world e'er saw has said — 

* Never durst poet touch a pen to write, 
Until his ink be tempered with Love's sighs ! ' " 

" Ah, true ; well listen then, for here is proof conclu- 
sive ! " And drawing from her bosom those very verses 
for which Horace had so often and so vainly sought, and 
which lately reposed so near the heart of Constance, 
. Gabriella commenced reading them. 

Imagine the consternation of the student ; vainly he 
attempted to snatch them from her hand ; but springing 
upon orje of the seats, the mischievous girl held them 
above her head, while she continued to repeat them with 
the most affected sentimentality. 

Constance arose, and walked off with the step of a 
Juno. 

Horace was provoked — he was really angry — morti- 
fied — and it was in no very gentle accents that he let his 
displeasure be known. 

" What must she think of me ! Good heavens, how. 



76 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 

much she must despise me ! Fool, fool that I have been ! " 
he exclaimed, as he strode rapidly back and forth the 
portico. 

*' Nay, dear cousin, never vex yourself about my proud 
sister Constance," whispered Meggie, stealing his hand 
and kissing it ; " here is your revenge," — and as she 
spoke, she slipped into it the tell-tale fragments she had 
so carefully gathered up. 

It was yet light enough for Horace to recognize the 
writing of Constance, and to see his own name traced in 
the same delicate chirography ! 

To the privacy of his own apartment did he hie with 
speed of thought, and there patiently, no, rather impa- 
tiently, dispose and arrange every tiny fragment, until he 
had deciphered enough to fill his soul with rapture. 
Leaning from the window he courts the gentle evening 
breeze to fan his fevered brow, ere he again trusts him- 
self to join the group below. He hears the cheerful, 
happy voices of his cousins, and the hearty good-humored 
laugh of his father — but afar down the winding path of 
the shrubbery, he catches the gleam of a white dress, 
slowly moving amid its deepest shades. Well did his 
heart tell him to whom that fluttering robe belonged, and 
in another moment he had joined Constance in her soli- 
tary ramble. 

We will not intrude upon this interview, but content 
ourselves with the knowledge, that in the bright month 
of September, just three months after this moonlight ram- 
ble, a happy bridal party drove up to the door of the old 
Hall, where stood the worthy housekeeper to welcome 
them, her eyes filling with tears of joy as she pressed to 
her honest heart, the happy bridegroom and his beautiful 
bride. 



GAITY. 77 



G AIT Y. 



CHAPTEE I. 



It was already three o'clock, P. M., in the month of 
November, 1769, that a party of four persons might be 
seen riding swiftly along the beach, opposite the town of 
Stonington. The afternoon was cold and gloomy, the 
wind blowing almost a gale ; and the waves, as they 
rolled and broke with violence upon the beach, seemed 
threatening, in every receding surge, to sweep ofT both 
horse and rider. The persons mentioned consisted of 
three men and one female, the latter evidently a prisoner. 
The elder of the party was a stout-built man, apparently 
of some sixty years. His dress denoted him above the 
common peasantry ; he wore a cloak with scarlet facings, 
which, as the wind blew aside, it could be seen that he 
was armed with sword and pistols. His countenance 
was stern, his brow knit until the large eye-brows nearly 
met ; and, as he now and then glanced upon the female, 
he compressed his lips until the blood seemed ready to 
start. The two others were much younger, and were 
appareled after the fashion common to young men of 
that period, and, like the elder, they were also armed. 
The young female, who rode between the two last-men- 
tioned persons, could not, from her appearance, be more 
than eighteen years of age. Her face was the hue of 
marble, her eyes downcast, and her whole bearing evinc- 



78 GAITY. 

ing deep dejection. Her dress was a dark riding-habit, 
fitting closely her slender figure, and a small beaver-hat 
and plume. 

The young men kept close to her side ; indeed one 
held tightly her bridle rein, while the elder personage 
rode on a few feet in advance. 

Heedless of the wind and the dashings of the surf, the 
party galloped swiftly along. For some time not a word 
was spoken, until turning a rocky point, where all fur- 
ther progress seemed impossible, and with nothing to im- 
pede the view of the raging sea ; the young girl now, for 
the first time, raised her head, and, in a voice of terror, 
demanded : 

" Father, dear father, where are we going ? Where 
will you take me ?" 

" That you will soon know," replied the person ad- 
dressed ; then, suddenly reining in his horse, he said, 
speaking to the young men : 

" Here I shall leave you. Eemember, Walter ; and 
you, too, Basil ; act no woman's part. As for you," 
turning as he spoke to the trembling girl, " take your 
father's last words — his curse .'" 

" Father, father, curse me not!" she shrieked, spring- 
ing from her horse, and clasping the knees of the speak- 
er : " curse not your child ! " 

" Off, serpent, off!" cried the old man, spurning her 
with his foot; " kneel not to me — think of your poor, 
distracted mother — of the disgrace and wretchedness you 
have brought to our once happy fire-side ! Again I curse 
you — yes, may the curse of an outraged father ever ring 
in your ears /" 

The girl uitered a piercing scream, and sank senseless 



GAITY. 79 

upon the sands. For a few moments her father sternly 
regarded her prostrate form ; gradually his features relax- 
ed, he became much agitated, and at length large tears 
rolled down his cheeks. 

" Oh, my God," he ejaculated, " is it come to this ! My 
daughter, my child, my child !" 

Stooping down, he imprinted a kiss upon her marble 
brow ; then, turning to his sons, he said : 

" Walter, Basil, hear me ; forget my weakness ; re- 
member, this erring child must not, shall nothe forgiven ! 
Yet treat her kindly ; be not too rough with her gentle 
nature. As for me, I shall never see her more !" 

Thus saying, he turned his horse, and rode swiftly 
away, in the same direction from which they came. 

The two young men, in the meanwhile, appeared total- 
ly unmoved by the scene they had just witnessed ; and, 
notwithstanding their father's injunctions, were striving, 
by rio very gentle means, to restore consciousness to the 
unfortunate girl. 

" Pest, she will never come to, as I see," said the one 
addressed as Walter ; " one would think these drenching 
sursfes would brino; her back." 

" Perhaps it were belter she should never revive," re- 
plied the other. " Minion ! but see, she opens her eyes. 
Come, madam, rouse yourself! No more swooning, 
if you please ! Come, get up," (seizing her rudely by 
the arm,) " we have something of a journey yet to go 
to-night, which may not prove quite so pleasing to your 
fancy as the one you undertook with your Indian lov- 
er." 

The girl slowly arose ; her face became the hue of 



80 GAITT. 

scarlet, and, turning her dark hazel eye upon the youth, 
she said : 

" Basil, is it from youl hear those cruel words? Do 
you, too, cast me off? Do you no longer love me ?" 

"Loye you," replied Basil, with a look of bitter scorn, 
" love you ! No ! I hate you !" 

" Fie, Basil, for shame," interrupted Walter ; " you are 
too bad. Kemember, our father told us to treat this 
wretched girl with kindness." 

" Did he, did he !" cried the poor girl. " Bless you, 
Walter, for those words. You, then, do not hate your 
poor sister ?" 

" No, Gaity, I do not hate you; yet still, for the dis- 
grace you have brought upon us, I could plunge this dag- 
ger into your bosom ! But come, Basil; see, the rain is 
already beginning to fall, and the Sound looks too rough 
for our paSl^age." 

" The more fitting our errand," replied Basil. " Neith- 
er thunder, rain, or old Ocean's self, though she chafe the 
very skies in her fury, shall stop, me, until this dainty 
lady is in security." 

So saying, and lifting Gaity into the saddle, he seized 
her bridle-rein, and the party once more galloped rapidly 
forward for about a quarter of a mile. Here they halted, 
and dismounting, led their horses a few yards from the 
beach, where they fastened them to some rude stakes of 
what had probably once been a fisherman's hut. They 
next proceeded to unmoor a small boat, and then ap- 
proached Gaity, who, with pale and alarmed features, had 
watched their movements. 

" Where will you take me ?" she cried, recoiling from 



•f 

GAITY. 81 

their approach. " 0, will you drown me ! Alas, I am 
not fit to die !" 

«* Drown you," interrupted Basil; "no, drowning'w 
would be too good for you ! Come, step in ;" then rudely 
pushing her into the boat, where Walter was already 
seated, they put off upon the angry waters. 

The rain, which had been threatening some time, now 
poured in torrents, while the winds and waves tossed the 
frail bark like an egg-shell ; every sea, as it came rushing 
and roaring down, seemed ready to engulf them. After 
two hours of hard labor they reached the shore of Fisher's 
Island, and after some little difficulty effected a landing. 
Securing the boat, they then each seized an arm of their 
sister, who, speechless from terror, was passive in their 
hands ; and, turning from the shore, plunged directly into 
a narrow path which led into the interior of the island ; 
now lifting Gaity in their arms over tangled%eaps of un- 
derbrush, or pulling her swiftly forward over the level 
ground. In this manner they proceeded for nearly an 
hour 1 at length they stopped. Hejne, on the borders of 
a thick forest stood a solitary house ; it was evidently 
much decayed, part of the roof had fallen in, and most of 
the windows appeared to have been newly boarded up. 
On one side it leaned to a deep chasm, washed below 
by a swift-running stream, whose hollow murmur struck 
horror to the soul. 

Leaving Walter and Gaity, Basil now approached the 
house, and, passing his hand through one of the broken 
sashes, drew forth a rusty key, which he applied to the 
door ; it turned slowly on its hinges and the party enter- 
ed. Nothing could exceed the desolation within but the 
desolation without. The room was empty, not a vestige 



82 GAITY. 

of furniture to be seen, while the rain beat in at the bro- 
ken casement. 
^1^ On one side was a flight of rickety stairs ; up these 
the young men groped their way, bearing the almost in- 
sensible form of Gaity in their arms. With the aid of 
flint, Walter now struck a light. It seemed, indeed, as 
if Misery and Want might here have chosen their 
'abode, so utterly desolate, so wretched did every thing ap- 
pear. 

Poor Gaity, pale with alarm, overcome with fatigue, 
and her garments drenched with rain, had sunk into the 
only chair the room contained, the very image of wo; 
when Basil approached, and, with a low bow, said, in. a 
voice of biting- sarcasm : 
, "Welcome, mistress, to your future homey 

Gaity raised her drooping head, looked from one to the 
other of hepkcruel brothers ; no ray of pity beamed on 
their dark features, and, with a shudder which convulsed 
her whole frame, the miserable girl fell senseless to the 
floor. 



CHAPTER II. • 

Before the wigwam had disappeared from the forest, 
or the bow of the savage been unstrung", a few English 
families had made their seillement near the borders of 
the Mystic river, Connecticut. 

On this very spot had been enacted one of the most 
dreadful tragedies that ever occurred in that fierce strug- 
gle with the Indians in the earlier settlement of the coun- 



GAITY. 83 

try — ours for might, theirs for right ! Here it was, in 
the darkness and silence of the night, Avhen the Indians 
were all sleeping in fancied security, that a party of Eng- 
lish soldiers, commanded by Captain Mason, stole sud- 
denly upon the Pequot fort, bringing death and destruc- 
tion in their van. No warning had the doomed savage, 
save the dying howl of a faithful watch-dog, while, at 
the same moment, a heavy fire was poured in upon them. 
Then the cry of Owanux! Owanux ! (Englishmen! 
Englishmen !) mingled with the terrific war-whoop, re- 
sounded through the fort ; but it was too late ! On every 
side they were surrounded, escape was impossible, a^f 
horrible to relate, the order was at length given by the 
English iojire the fort, and hundreds of men, women 
and children perished in their wigwams ! 

" And, indeed," says the historian, " such a dreadful 
terror did the Almighty let fall upon their spirits, that 
they would fly from us into the very flames." 

But, at the period this tale commences, not a trace of 
this cruel war remained. Small villages and clustering 
cottages skirted the banks of this pretty stream, and fine- 
ly-cultivated farms stretched far in the distance. Now 
• and then a few solitary remnants of the Pequot tribe 
would wander through the soil of their fathers ; for it 
was then no rare thing to see these sons of the forest, who 
were generally treated with kindness by the whites, al- 
though that feeling of hostility and revenge, which |iad 
burned so furiously in the breasts of both, was not at 
that early period quite subdued, and occasional disputes, 
together with many petty acts of pilfering committed by 
the Indians, when under the influence of "^re water,''^ 
(for which, as is well known, their thirst was in- 



84 ' GAixr. 

satiable,) only served to keep alive the flame of dis- 
cord. 

Basil Trevor was from a noble family of England, but 
being a younger son, was consequently dependent upon 
the church, army or navy for his support. Preferring, 
however, to seek a fortune in the new world to either, he 
bade farewell to friends and country, and embarked for 
America ; bringing with him all that pride of birth, and 
high and lofty bearing which marked his descent. Dis- 
appointed love might, perhaps, have somewhat influenced 
his decision, as it is well known his final determination 
to seek a foreign land was not made until the Lady 
Edith had been forced into a marriage with a wealthy 
baronet. 

To America, then, came Basil Trevor at the age of 
three-and-twenty. He landed at Boston, where, after 
tarrying a few weeks in company with others who, like 
himself, had left the shores of England to find a home in 
America, he proceeded to the fertile region of the Con- 
necticut. Pursuing his researches, he reached the neigh- 
borhood of the Mystic, and delighted with its ro- 
mantic scenery, and the promising aspect of the soil, 
obtained a large tract of land on its borders. Here, 
shut out from the world, careless for fortune, Trevor 
resolved to seek for happiness amid the scenes of na- 
ture. 

Under his persevering industry and energies, the 
" wilderness soon blossomed as the rose.^^ Fields of corn, 
of waving wheat, rich clover-pastures, now flourished 
where once the great Sassacus stepped in his pride and 
might ; and, in due time, a neat cottage took the place 



GAITY. ^^r^ 85 

of the rude log-hut which first sheltered the young ad- 
venturer. 

As if on purpose to requite his unwearied industry, 
the obliging baronet broke his neck at a race-course, and 
Edith became a widow ! This news was transmitted by 
some kind friend in the first ship, and, in less than a week 
after it was received, behold Basil Trevor a passenger in 
a vessel bound for London ! He arrived safely in Eng- 
land, and hastened, with the speed of thought, imbodied 
in four post-horses, to the baronial castle of his dead ri- 
val — a scream of delight, and Edith is fainting in his 
arms ! The marriage ceremony was performed without 
delay, and the lovely bride accompanied her husband to 
his new home. 

But, alas ! her tender nature was not suited to the hard- 
ships, the privations of this new life. Reared in the 
abodes of luxury, with every indulgence which wealth 
could give, lavished upon her, she could illy meet the 
trials she was now called upon to sustain. Fortitude, 
affection, or kindness forsook not the pure temple of her 
heart — but her health yielded. She pined gradually 
away ; her foot lost its lightness, her form became al- 
most ethereal; and, although the dark eye sparkled and 
the rose tinted her cheek, after a few years she sank to 
rest with the summer flowers, leaving one sweet bud to 
shield, in its balmy beauty, the heart of the lone husband 
against despair. 

Bitter, indeed, was the grief of Trevor at this sad be- 
reavement ; and yet, in one year after the death of Edith, 
he become the husband of another. Deem him not heart- 
less, inconstant, or ungrateful ; so soon to yield another 



86 •^ 



m 



GAITY. 



the place where once the lovely Edith rested in her gen- 
tleness and beauty ! 

The rough nature of man was not suited to the nur- 
ture of so fragile a plant as the little Edith. The gentle 
hand of woman was required to cherish and defend the 
frail blossom from the many ills of childhood. No kind 
mother or sympathizing sister had the bereaved husband 
to take the babe to their bosoms, and, therefore it was, he 
offered his hand to the daughter of one who had emi- 
grated from the mother country about the same time as 
himself. 

A kind and gentle being was Gaity, and in her the 
sweet babe found indeed a mother; and, although as 
years rolled on, other and closer ties were woven around 
the heart of Mrs. Trevor, she never for a moment loved 
the little Edith less fondly, or suffered those new ties to 
weaken that chain of sympathy which bound her to the 
motherless child. 

A blooming family grew up around Mrs. Trevor, of 
which the little bright-eyed Gaity was the youngest and 
cherished favorite. Her slightest wishes were to her fond 
parents as laws, while her two brothers and Edith were 
never wearied of devising amusements for this dazzling^ 
pet. Although as beautiful as the first blush of morn, 
Gaity was a wayward and stubborn child, to which, un- 
doubtedly, the extreme indulgence of those around her 
was only adding new vigor. She was, however, kind 
and affeclionate in her nature, to which feelings she yield- 
ed with all the impetuosity of a spoiled child ; no matter 
by what excited, a bird a flower, a pet lamb or kitten, all 
in turn called forth her devotion. Dearly, too, did she 
love her sister Edith, whose winning manners, and kind, 



• 



GAITY. 87 

persuasive words often possessed an influence over the 
willful child, which naught else could effect. 

As before mentioned, the Indians were then no stran- 
gers to the soil. Often parties of from fifty to a hundred 
would encamp in the adjacent woods, and there tarry- 
sometimes for months ; their baskets, brooms, moccasins, 
and other articles of traffic, finding a ready sale in the 
houses of the whites. 

Unlike most children of her age, Gaity fearlessly at- 
tached herself to these dwellers of the forest, who, in re- 
turn, manifested, by their uncouth gestures of delight, and 
many little presents of ingenious fabric, their fondness 
for the little white maiden, or, as they usually styled her, 
" the little Sloe-blossom.''^ Springing like a fawn to the 
arms of the savage, Gaity would cling fondly to them ; 
sometimes passing whole days amid their wigwams, in 
unrestrained freedom, playing with the little papoose, 
weaving rushes with her small taper fingers, or learn- 
ing to adorn the smooth bark with the quills of the por- 
cupine. 

This wandering tribe were generally accompanied by a 
venerable Indian, claiming to be the son of the great Sas- 
sacus himself. Whether this assertion might be consid- 
ered as truth is uncertain ; but there was a quiet dignity 
in the manners and bearing of the old chief, which might 
well warrant the assumption. He mixed but little with 
his tribe, his wigwam was remote from theirs, and his 
time generally occupied in hunting the game, which, 
even at that early period, was beginning to be considered 
a rarity ; or in his birch canoe, accompanied by his 
grandson, Onowahoo, a lad of twelve, would softly glide 
where the umbrageous woods over-canopied the river, and 



88 GAITY. 

there, with a composure which '*oId Izaak" might have 
envied, ensnare the silvery trout which frequented its wa- 
ters. The resuhs of these labors or pleasures often found 
their way to the table of Mr. Trevor, being usually left 
after nightfall upon the door-stone, in the most quiet man- 
ner, by Monatahqua himself, who took this method to 
manifest his gratitude. for various kindnesses received at 
the hands of Mr. Trevor. 

Between Gaity and the young savage Onowahoo there 
had always existed the warmest friendship. He brought 
her the most beautiful bird 's-eggs, the greenest moss, the 
clearest pebbles, to adorn her little play-house ; and would 
spend hours in weaving baskets and other ingenious arti- 
cles to give her pleasure, while, in return, Gaity shared 
with him her nicest treasures, and, with her own little 
hands, knit gay comforters and leggins, to keep him 
warm through the cold winter. 

Twice had Onowahoo saved the life of Gaity. * 

There was within a few miles of Poplar Grove, (the 
residence of Mr. Trevor,) an extensive pond, which, at 
certain seasons of the year, resembled a floating garden, 
so thickly was it covered with that fragrant and lovely 
flower, the pond-lily, resting in snowy purity so beauti- 
fully in its light green shallop on the glassy surface of 
the pond, peeping over, too, half-bashfuUy, as if to see 
itself mirrored therein in graceful beauty. Gaiiy had 
coaxed her father, by many well-timed hugs and kisses, 
(which the little gipsy knew very well when to apply,) into 
permission that she might accompany Monatahqua and 
Onowahoo upon an excursion to this beautiful pond. 
They accordingly set off* through the forest, Gaity hand 
in hand with Onowahoo, laughing, chatting, and sing- 



GAITY. 89 

ing her little songs, half-English, half Indian. When 
the little " Sloe-blossom" seemed weary, Monatahqua 
would bear her in his arms over the rough places ; and 
the Indian boy, running at her side, pluck the ripest ber- 
ries to allay her thirst, and occasionally the happy party 
would rest together under some shady tree. In this man- 
ner they reached the pond ; here they found a canoe, 
secured at the water's edge, in which they were soon 
seated, gliding gently to that part where the lilies seemed 
in the greatest profusion. As they approached it, Gaity 
clapped her hands in ecstasy, and exclaiming : 

" Some for ma'ma — some for Edith," reached over too 
hastily to pluck them ; she lost her balance, and sank 
amid the lilies ; which first yielding gently to their love- 
ly burthen, then formed a fragrant pall above her. An- 
other moment, and she was safe in the arms of Monatah- 
qua ; the next, a shower of lilies fell around her from the 
hand of Onowahoo, who had again plunged in to divert 
the terror of the trembling child. 

At another time, when Gaity had been as usual ram- 
bling for hours in the forest, she became weary, and, throw- 
ing herself under a tree, lay for some time tracing pic- 
tures in the light fleecy clouds as they floated above, and 
in trying to count the green leaves frolicking and danc- 
ing to the soft wind around her head. On a neighbor- 
ing tree a golden oriole had perched himself, swinging, 
with the most enviable security, upon the very extremity 
of a large bough, pouring forth his rich notes in one de- 
licious gush of melody; these, too, did the little maiden 
try to imitate ; but at length the clouds floated dreamily 
away, the leaves moved to a more gentle measure, and 
6 



90 GAITY. 

the song of the oriole grew ever fainter and fainter. The 
child slept. 

It being near noon, Mr. Trevor himself went in search 
of his truant child. He soon discovered her, and ad- 
vanced gently to awaken her ; but, conceive his horror, 
on approaching nearer, to discover a large rattlesnake 
coiled within a few feet of the sleeping innocent ! He 
dares not advance — he fears to move, least he may arouse 
the reptile — his very senses seem to be forsaking him, 
from terror at the danger of his child ; when, suddenly, 
he sees Onowahoo approach. The boy drops noiselessly 
amid the deep grass, and glides to the spot where poor 
Gaity, unconscious of danger, is so calmly sleeping. Al- 
ready, with head erect and eyes glittering in Iris hues of 
beauty, the snake seems about to dart upon its victim, 
when at that instant, with a rapid bound, Onowahoo seiz- 
es the venomous reptile by the neck ; it coils its length in 
slimy folds around the naked arm of the brave boy, who, 
nothing daunted, compresses the throat of his victim ever 
tighter and tighter until death ensues ! 

It is not strange, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Trevor were 
much attached to the preserver of their darling child. 
Earnestly did they entreat Monatahqua to leave Onowa- 
hoo with them ; promising that he should be treated as a 
child, and receive the same education as their sons. But 
Monatahqua pointed to the woods : 

" There is room for the red man there," he said ; " the 
cabin of the pale face would fetter the limbs of the In- 
dian. The foot of Onowahoo must be fleet as the deer 
of the forest." 

A period of six or eight months had elapsed since the 
last visit of the old chief, when, one morning, he sudden- 



GAITY. 91 

ly entered the sitting-room of Mr. Trevor, leading- Ono- 
wahoo by the hand. He was attired in much splendor ; 
a bright scarlet blanket, adorned with wampum, was 
thrown over his shoulders ; his leggins were of many- 
colored cloth, and fancifully embroidered ; and his brows 
were decorated with a variety of variegated feathers. 

With a cry of delight, Gaity sprang to his side, and 
then, flinging her arms around the neck of Onowahoo, 
pressed his dark cheek with her rosy lips. With a low, 
guttural laugh, Monatahqua passed his hand over the 
golden locks of Gaity, and then advancing to Mr. Trevor, 
he said : 

" Chief, Monatahqua goes to the spirit-land ; his Great 
Father calls him. The ears of Monatahqua are open ; he 
will go, for now the war path is hidden under the thick 
smoke of the calumet ! Take, then, my son, that I may 
depart in peace." 

Without waiting for a reply, the old chief then turned 
and walked with dignity from the room ; leaving Onowa- 
hoo standing motionless as a statue, with Gaity still 
clinging around him. 

It was the last visit of Monatahqua. He was never 
seen more. 



CHAPTER III. 



The young Indian lad received a joyful welcome from 
each member of Mr. Trevor's household, and was uni- 
formly treated with kindness by all, save the two boys, 
Walter and Basil ; who were, perhaps, envious of the 



92 GAITY. 

superior strenofth and agfility displayed by trie Indian, 
especially in all games pertaining to forest life. Ono- 
wahoo, however, was ever taciturn and reserved, seldom 
departing from the characteristic gravity of his race, and 
never mixing in the sports of boyhood, except to please 
the whims of4|ll^ittle wayward Gaity. The habits of his 
fathers clang closely to him ; and, notwithstanding the 
iiisiructions and earnest persuasions of his present triends, 
*uhe Indian was an Indian still." 

Hn the meanwhile the days of childhood flitted away, 
now gay, now tearful ; as the lark soars to heaven, its 
wings gemmed with the dews of morning, or as rose-leaves 
scattered by rain ; and Gaily, now no longer a child, was 
forced to ''put off childish things." 

Edith had already been sent to Boston, to receive those 
advantages of education which could not be obtained at 
the Grove ; and the time had now arrived when it was 
deemed advisable by her parents that Gaity also should 
go from home for the same purpose. 

Farewell, then, to frolic and mirth ! Poor Gaity I with 
bursting heart, streaming eyes and pouting lip, was obliged 
to clip down her buoyant spirits to the narrow contines 
of a school-room. 

From this time, for a period of two or three years, the 
sisters only revisited their home at intervals of six or 
eight months. Gaity retained all her wild impetuosity of 
character ; and no bird, released from its wiry prison, 
ever winged its way with more gladness to its native 
woods than did Gaity upon these occasions fly back to the 
well-remembered haunts of childhood. Every nook and 
dell again felt the pressure of her light footstep ; the mea- 
dow-brook again mirrored the bright, happy face of the 



GAITY. 93 

maiden, and once more the woods resounded with her 
merry, ringing laugh. 

Upon these occasions Gaity was seldom unaccompa- 
nied by Onowahoo ; for her brothers, Walter and Basil, 
felt no sympathy in the feelings of the young girl, scorn- 
ing those scenes in which the heart of their sister took 
such delight ; while, at the same time, they taunted and 
ridiculed her fondness for forest life, styling her the 
" Indian Princess of the Grove !" Edith although justly 
alive to the beauties of nature, found full occupation in 
assisting her mother in the household duties. Thus 
Gaity and Onowahoo were thrown much together. 

High beat the heart of the young Indian at those traits 
in Gaity's character, so similar to his own wild nature. 
He watched her graceful form, bounding like a fawn 
through the forest glades, and her speaking, animated 
countenance with delight. Nor is it to be wondered at 
that Gaity found a pleasure in his society, which, un- 
known to her innocent heart, constituted more than half 
the charm of her daily rambles. 

Edith was the first to perceive the unhappy results of 
this constant companionship and affinity of tastes. She 
was inexpressibly shocked at the discovery, and gently 
warned Gaity against indulging or encouraging feelings 
so inimical to the happiness of both. 

Crimsoned with blushes, Gaity, with a wild laugh, 
kissed the pale cheek of her sister, assuring her she need 
be under no uneasiness, and then added with a haughty 
tone and sparkling eye, that if she did love Onowahoo, 
she would rather have a lodge in the wilderness with 
him than to reign queen of England's realm. 

But this conversation with Edith removed at once the 



94 GAITY. 

vail which had wrapped her heart in such blissful securi- 
ty, and with true feminine modesty, she now absented 
herself almost entirely from the society of Onowahoo. 

This sudden change of conduct was to him as a death- 
blow ; for he at once divined that she had discovered his 
daring" love, and now avoided him from anger at his pre- 
sumption. He hoped to have buried forever his fatal at- 
tachment in his own breast, and thus been able to enjoy, 
from day to day, the melancholy happiness of beholding 
the object of his hopeless love ; for never, even in his 
wildest dreams, had he for a moment indulged the thought 
that the fair daughter of the proudest in the land, the 
beautiful child of his benefactor, could love the lone Indi- 
an, or feel other than pity for his degraded race ! Fear- 
ing now he had drawn upon himself her indignation and 
contempt, he resolved to depart silently from the Grove, 
never to return. 

It was but a few days after the painful discovery of the 
true state of her feelings, that Gaity, pale and dejected, 
stole out alone into the forest. She had not gone far, 
when, through an opening in the trees, she perceived 
Onowahoo approaching. His step was heavy, his eyes 
downcast, and his whole manner plainly denoting the 
wretchedness of his mind. He advanced slowly to within 
a few paces of Gaity, when, suddenly raising his head, he 
saw the object of his thoughts standing before him. He 
would have turned, but Gaity advanced a step to meet 
him, and, in a voice of kindness, said : 

" Why is the countenance of my brother so sad ?" 

Onowahoo for a moment gazed mournfully upon her, 
then, pointing upward, he replied: 

"As yonder cloud, now floating in the heavens, will soon 



GAITY. 96 

fade and vanish away, so must Onowahoo depart from 
the presence of the Sloe-blossom." 

In a low, trembling voice, Gaity answered : 

" Would Onowahoo leave the Sloe-blossom to droop 
alone in the forest ? Where would her brother go that 
Gaity might not follow ?" 

A gleam of delight sparkled for an instant from the 
eyes of the Indian ; he then rejoined : 

*' Onowahoo goes beyond the homes of the pale-face, 
that when his great Father calls him, he may go to the 
happy hunting-grounds with his red brothers." 

" What bird has sung in the ears of Onowahoo ?^ Is 
the hand of my father closed ? Has the tongue of my 
mother spoken false, or the Sloe-blossom turned away 
from her brother, that he leaves her ?" 

Onowahoo shaded his eyes with his handy and answer- 
ed, with a low and mournful tone : 

" Onowahoo must no longer look upon the Sloe-hloS' 
som.^^ 

In a moment Gaity now comprehended the motives of 
the Indian. She made no reply, while Onowahoo turned 
sadly to leave her ; then, with a quiet dignity, foreign 
to her usual manner, and determination speaking in ev- 
ery feature, Gaity held out her hand, saying, in a voice of 
firmness : 

" No, Onowahoo must not go alone ! See, the Sloe- 
■ blossom puts her hand in his /" 

The happiness of these unfortunate lovers was a dream 
too sweet to last ; and bitter, indeed, were the scenes to 
which they finally awoke. 

* It is said the Indians called tale-bearers, or those who spoke 
falsely, " singing birds." 



5,6 GAITT. 

Edith saw with grief her worst fears realized. Vainly 
Ilid she warn her sister asfainst the wrath of her father 



and brothers, should they discover her attachment for 
Onowahoo. Him she urged to fly imm.ediately from the 
Grove, to leave Gaity forever, and thus save her from the 
terrible indignation which she knew w^ould await her ; 
but, notwithstanding all her cautions, all her entreaties, 
the lovers willfully shut their eyes to the danger they were 
hourly incurring, and, in one unguarded moment, all was 
discovered. 

Gaity attempted no concealment of her feelings ; but, 
with firmness and decision, at once openly acknowledged 
her love for the Indian. 

No words can paint the wrath of Mr. Trevor, as he 
listened to this avowal. It seemed as if that deep affec- 
tion which had ever been, as it were, the well-spring of 
his existence, was at once suddenly and for ever dried up, 
choked, obliterated ! The wretched mother and Edith 
wept in agony, while Walter and Basil, with fury flash- 
ing from their eyes, deeply reviled and insulted their sis- 
ter, who, with cheeks flushed with indignation, her form- 
raised to its full height, stood proudly in the midst, mak- 
ing no reply to their insulting language, except by looks 
of the most perfect defiance. At length, seizing her by 
the arm, her father dragged her to her chamber, thrust her 
rudely within, and locked the door. 

They went in search of Onowahoo. 

" Dog ! Indian ! Slave ! Away with you I" cried 
Mr. Trevor, " Away ! If, at the setting of the sun, 
you are found within the limits of my land, your scalp, 
according to your own fashion^ shall hang from the near- 
est tree !" 



GAITT. 97 

Onowahoo was about to reply, when Basil suddenly 
approached, and, raising his arm gave the Indian a blow 
across the face. The next instant he was prostrate on 
the ground, the knee of the savage on his breast, and 
the knife already gleaming before his eyes. Mr. Tre- 
vor and Walter rushed upon Onowahoo, who, shaking 
them off with Herculean strength, threw down the knife, 
and stood, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, con- 
fronting his foes. , 

" The knife of Onowahoo will not drink the blood of 
a coward," he said; then turning to Mr. Trevor, he con- 
tinued : 

*' Chief, you were the friend of Monatahqua — you 
have been the friend of Onowahoo — it is written on his 
heart I There is now a cloud on the face of the chief; 
but his words are laws to Onowahoo. His shadow shall 
not be on the land at the setting of the sun." 

So saying, he walked slowly away, and soon disap- 
peared in the depths of the forest. 



For weeks the unhappy Gaity was kept a close prison- 
er in her chamber ; no person was allowed to see her. 
Even the entreaties of her distressed mother or Edith 
could not move the stern father to relent. 

While thus, for the first time, the harmony of that hap- 
py household was broken by the rough hand of discord, 
Edith received a pressing invitation from a young friend 
in Boston, that she would officiate as bridesmaid at her 
approaching nuptials. She would gladly have declined, 
but her parents both urged and insisted upon her going. 
Hoping the void created by her absence might induce her 
father to forgive her sister, she at last consented. With- 



98''*^»- GAITT. 



out being allowed to bid poor Gaity farewell, Edith de- 
parted, bearing a heart of sadness, to scenes where joy 
and happiness reigned. 

Edith judged rightly. Mr. Trevor did, indeed, miss 
the society of his daughters — the gentle, lovely Edith, 
and that other bright and joyous girl, whose presence had 
ever been to him as the morning star ; and a few days 
after the departure of the former, the door of Gaity's 
chamber was unbarred, and she was led forth to freedom. 
But it was such freedom as rendered the walls of her 
prison a heaven in comparison ! 

The cold and chilling looks of her father fell like a 
blight upon her young heart, crushing the germ of duty, 
which would have led her to have flown at once to his 
arms, to implore his forgiveness. The countenance of 
her mother, it is true, flushed with joy ; tears started to 
her eyes, and she would have folded the pale, heart- 
stricken girl to her maternal bosom, but a look from her 
husband ^^ froze the ivarm current of her souly^^ and she 
remained passive. There were her brothers also to greet 
her — but how ! not with looks of pity and forgiveness, 
but with 

" Hard unkindness, altered eye, 
That mochs the tear it forced to flow ;'* 

and poor Gaity that night returned to her chamber, more 
miserable than when she had left it. 

She threw open the window, and looked forth, with 
tearful eye, upon the scene now, like herself, so changed 
from the bright spring-time of happiness — the sear and 
yellow leaf had already fallen upon her young heart. It 
was now November. The autumn leaves, whose bril* 



GAITY. 99 

• 
liant variegation had draped the forest with such gorgeous 

magnificence, were now (fit epitome of the idle passions 
of mankind) whirling rapidly past her window, soon to 
mingle with the clods of the valley. The moon was at 
her full ; — while, at a little distance, the river, gleaming 
through the thick shrubbery on its banks, spangled the 
dark outline of the forest. Heedless of the chilly night- 
wind which blew around her, Gaity remained for some 
time absorbed in mournful revery, when she was sud- 
denly aroused by a slight rustling beneath her window, 
and, almost at the same moment, an arrow fell at her 
feet. Joy irradiated the face of the maiden, for well she 
knew from whose hand it sped ! She hastily raised it — 
affixed was the ring she had given to Onowahoo ! 
She now leaned from the window and looked eargerly 
around, and soon discovered the form of her lover re- 
clining against a tree a few paces distant* Gaity re- 
pressed the cry of delight which mounted from her heart 
to her lips, but, clasping her hands together, tears of joy 
fell over her pale face. 

A second arrow was now thrown in ; around it was a 
paper, on which was written : 

" At midnight, Onowahoo, by the river-side, will 
watch for the Sloe-blossom. The canoe floats empty in 
the stream ; a horse, fleet as the wild deer, paws the 
opposite shore. The ring will whisper * yes ' to the heart 
of Onowahoo." 

Alas ! not a moment did the wretched girl deliberate, 
but, with trembling fingers, she once more fastened the 
ring to the arrow, and dropped it from the window. 
Onowahoo glided to the spot, and, as he recognized the 
token of assent, he looked up to the pale, beautiful face 



100 GAITY. 

of Gaity, bending over him in love and truthfulness ; 
then, sinking for an instant upon his knee, the Indian 
pressed the ring to his lips and disappeared. 

It is not surprising that the reserve and apparent scorn 
she now met from those in whose eyes she had ever 
been worshiped as an idol, by whom she had been so 
tenderly caressed, flattered, and indulged ; her every 
wish, however trifling, gratified almost before it was ex- 
pressed ; should have filled the undisciplined heart of 
Gaity with mingled grief and indignation. At that 
critical moment, when still writhing under the insulting 
looks of her brothers, the feigned indifference of her 
father, came Onowahoo, offering love — happiness — free- 
dom ! 

Her error loas great ! So was her temptation ! 

Oh, parents, beware how you treat the first offences of 
inexperienced youth ! Crush not the hearts of your 
children with a brow of iron ; withhold not from their 
repentant lips the kiss of forgiveness ; nor let the tongue 
speak those " bitter words that kill!" No, rather take 
them to your arms in pity ; whisper of love and pardon ; 
and, as the gentle dew falls from heaven to enrich and 
fructify the earth, so let the words of tender admonition 
sink into the heart of your child, to nourish the seeds of 
virtue and good resolves. 

The heart of a child must, indeed, be formed of 
" sterner stuff," which can resist the holy influence of 
that pardon hallowed with tears from the lips of an ag- 
grieved parent ! 

Had such been the conduct of Mr. Trevor, what days 
of anguish, of misery beyond description, would have 
been spared ! 



GAITY. 101 

Too much agitated to reflect upon the momentous step 
she was about to take, Gaity hastily selected a few 
articles from her wardrobe, changed her light dress for a 
traveling-habit, and, at the appointed hour, stole softly 
down stairs. As she reached the door of her mother's 
bed-room, she stopped — her whole frame shook with 
emotion ; then the pang of remorse shot through her 
bosom. Alas ! was she about to leave for ever tnat kind, 
affectionate mother, the tender nurse of her infant years; 
that being from whose lips no words but those of kind- 
ness had ever fallen ; and was she thus to leave her ! 
Edith, too, that beloved sister ! should she never more 
meet the glance of those mild eyes, ever beaming with 
sisterly affection ! Gaity trembled, her purpose faltered, 
and she would fain have returned to her chamber; but, 
at that moment, the stern, reproachful look of her father 
seemed fixed upon her ! Again her ears seem poisoned 
with the contemptuous language of her brothers ! No 
longer did she hesitate ; but, softly unbarring the door, 
fled swiftly along the path which led to the river. 

She had not proceeded far when she was joined by 
Onowahoo. They spoke not — but one look, as their 
eyes met, told all ! the pain and suffering they had 
mutually endured, and the happiness of the present 
moment. 

They soon crossed the river, and sped swiftly on 
through the night. Soon after daylight, they arrived at 
the little village of Westerly, on the borders of Rhode 
Island. Here the fugitives deetned it necessary to tarry 
a short time, in order to recruit the almost exhausted 
strength of their panting steed. 

It happened, unfortunately, that Walter Trevor had left 



\ 



102 GAITY. 

the Grove late on the previous afternoon, to attend to 
some law business in Stonington. A vi^itness residing in 
Westerly was required ; and Walter, therefore, rode 
over very early in the morning, (a distance of five miles,) 
and arrived at the inn only a few moments after the 
unfortunate lovers ! 

Then the storm burst in fury over their heads ! 

Walter, foaming with rage, instantly called upon the 
authorities of the village for aid. Onowahoo was secured 
and strictly guarded as a runaway Indian ; while Gaity 
was conveyed to a small room in the upper story of the 
inn, Walter himself keeping guard on the outside. 

In the meanwhile, an express was sent off to inform 
Mr. Trevor of the capture of the fugitives. In a few 
hours the unhappy father, pale with rage and mortifica- 
tion, arrived, accompanied by Basil. 

A short time sufficed for their arrangements. Ono- 
wahoo was immediately sent off, under a strong guard, 
to Boston, from thence he was to be shipped to the West 
Indies, and there sold as a slave. 

At that time Fisher's Island was uninhabited, unless it 
might be by the occasional visits of fishermen, and, for 
their convenience, a few rude shelters had been thrown 
up near the water's edge ; but, in the interior of the 
island, stood the remains of a large building, said to 
have been occupied by several families of whites, who 
had fled thither for security during the Pequot war ; 
they were, however, at length discovered by the savages, 
and every soul inhumanly murdered. Since then it had 
been uninhabited, and was fast crumbling to decay. To 
this desolate spot did Mr. Trevor resolve to bear his 
child! With a terrible oath, the infuriated father swore 



GAITY. 103 

he would never forgive her ; she had disgraced herself 
and her family; the proud name of Trevor was now in- 
delibly stained; and there, then, far from the face of 
man, from the sound of a human voice, should she 
forever bury her shame ! 

Having decided upon this cruel course, Walter and 
Basil immediately left to ascertain the exact location of 
this miserable building, and to furnish it with such 
articles as might be necessary for bare existence, taking 
with them, at the same time, an old, half-crazed woman, 
who for years had roved at large in the neighborhood, 
under the name of " Crazy Nell." Mr. Trevor procured 
this woman to take charge of his daughter. As a re- 
ward, he poured into her skinny hand more gold than had 
ever yet met her greedy grasp, while, at the same time, 
he so wrought upon the terrors of the miserable woman 
should she refuse, or prove unfaithful to the trust, that, 
cowed with fear, trembling as if she already felt the 
knife at her heart, Crazy Nell was borne off by the 
brothers, a companion for the young, beautiful, and noble- 
minded, but misguided Gaity ! 

On the afternoon of the second day all was prepared ; 
the wretched Gaity was dragged from her prison, placed 
on horseback, and, with Walter and Basil riding close to 
her bridle-rein, the party set off to bear Gaity to her 
future gloomy abode. Here the reader followed her at 
the commencement of this veritable story. 



When Gaity recovered from the swoon, into which it 
will be remembered she had fallen, she found herself 
alone. A few wet branches were smouldering in the 
fire-place. A tallow candle flickered in fitful shadows 



104 GAITY. 

# 

upon the wall, rendering the darkness even more horrible. 
The wind howled mournfully around, and the rain 
still poured in torrents ; while, to add to the terrors of 
the scene, a heavy peal of thunder now shook the 
ruinous building to its foundation. 

" Basil ! Walter ! " shrieked the poor girl. But there 
was no answer. Her voice sounded strange in that lone 
room. Again she called — still no answer. At last the 
door slowly opened, and Crazy Nell, her form bent 
nearly double, tottered into the room. With a sort of 
half-dancing motion, she advanced to the bed, while 
Gaity, affrighted, shrank to the wall. 

" Did the little bird sing ? " cried the old woman, 
fixing her glassy eye upon her. " What will the pretty 
birdie have ? " 

Reassured by the kindness of her tones, Gaity ex- 
claimed, clasping her hands in entreaty : 

"0, tell me where I am ? Where is Basil? Where 
Walter?" ♦ 

" Gone — gone — gone — the brothers are gone, 
And the birdie is left in the cage all alone / " 

sang, or rather screamed the hag. 

" O, let me out quickly from this horrid place ! " 
shrieked Gaity, now overcome with fear, springing from 
the bed and rushing to the door. 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the old woman,, hobbling 

after her, " fold your wings, pretty birdie ; 

" Gone — gone — gone — the brothers are gone. 
And the birdie is left in the cage all alone." 

The wretched girl sank nearly senseless upon the 
floor, and gave herself up to her misery. Crazy Nell 
seemed somewhat moved by the heavy sobs which burst 



I 

GAITY. 105 ^ 

# 

from her sorrowing heart, and, after watching her a few 
moments with apparent wonder, she patted her gently on 
the head, saying, " Poor bird — poor bird ! " and then, 
hobbling away, seemed to busy herself in preparing 
some refreshment for the exhausted girl. Her well- 
meant kindness, however, was vain, and, after an attempt 
to swallow the morsel of food the old woman placed 
before her, with despair at her heart, Gaity threw herself 
upon the wretched pallet. 

At length sleep, that angel of peace, who in tender- 
ness listens to the lamentations of the afflicted, took her 
gently to her bosom, and she slept calmly until late the 
following morning. When she awoke the sun was 
shining brightly in ; hastily springing from the bed, she 
flew to the window, and looked out upon the scene. 
This window (and the only one) was boarded up, with 
the exception of one solitary pane of glass, which was 
directly over the deep ravine before-mentioned ; and the 
stream, swollen by the late storm, now brawled furiously 
over its rocky bed. On every side she was surrounded 
by a deep forest. She attempted to open the window; 
it was fastened ; she then tried the door — thai was also 
secured. At that moment from some dark corner 
emerged Nell, gibbering, and dancing as before. Throw- 
ing herself at her feet, Gaity implored her to release her; 
entreating her, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, 
that she would suffer her to quit that abode of misery 
and desolation ; but, although the old woman appeared 
to comprehend, and even sympathize in her grief, she 
only shook her head, saying: 

" No, no, pretty birdie ! " and then, as if it might be a 
means to frighten her from her wishes, added, in a voice 
7 



^ 



3' 

106 GAITY. 

% 

of affected terror, pointing to the woods, " Indian in the 
woods — take care / " 

Gaity soon found all attempts at escape were im- 
possible. What, then, was to be her lot? Was she 
brought there to die ? No, it could not be ; her father 
would relent ; she should be forgiven. Onowahoo, too — 
yes, they should all be happy once more! Such were 
the sunbeams which occasionally lit up the dark prison 
of Gaity. . Alas, poor child ! 

At the end of a week, Gaity one morning saw Basil 
approach the house. Uttering a scream of joy, while 
she beat the window with her little hand, she cried : 

" O, Basil, dear brother, take me away ! Take me to 
my mother ! Take me home — home — home ! " she 
shrieked, louder and louder, as she saw him turn from 
the house. 

Yes, that cruel brother, after depositing a basket upon 
the door-stone, walked rapidly away, without casting 
even one look to where the pale despairing face of Gaity 
was watching him ; and whose voice of agonizing en- 
treaty reached his ears, even through the walls of her 
prison. 

He disappeared. Then hope forsook the heart of 
Gaity ! 

Every week either Basil or Walter would leave a 
basket of the coarsest provisions at the door, never en- 
tering the house, or bestowing either word or look upon 
the unhappy sister. 

The place at last was reported to be haunted. Shrieks, 
groans, and horrid laughter were said to have been heard 
issuing thence, by fishermen whom accident had led 
thither. Some even went so far as to assert that those 



GAITY. ' 107 ^ 

very witches, supposed to have been executed nearly a 
century before, here assembled and held their midnight 
orgies, in contempt of fire and faggots ! WhileJ^ others 
it was believed a maniac was there confined in chains ! 

At any rate, the island soon became deserted, no one , 
caring to approach its shores after nightfall. 



After leaving his daughter, as already described, Mr. 
Trevor returned home ; but it was only to meet with a 
new and more severe trial. He found his wife in the 
agonies of death. She had been for some time gradually 
sinking under that fatal disease so incident to our 
climate — consumption ; and this sudden shock of her 
darling child's elopement had caused the rupture of a 
blood-vessel, and Mr. Trevor only arrived in time to 
receive her last breath. 

Great as was his grief at this sudden bereavement of 
an amiable and beloved companion, it lessened not his 
wrath against his disobedient child. On the contrary, 
those feelings seemed only to be augmented, and again 
and again he cursed her, as the destroyer of her mother ! 

Edith was still in Boston. Who should break to her 
these heavy tidings — a mother dead ! a sister banished ! 
As soon, however, as the last sad rites were performed, 
Mr. Trevor resolved to go himself and' bring Edith back 
to her desolate home. Accordingly, the next week he 
departed for Boston, and soon returned with his child, 
now his only comfort. 

Absorbed in grief at the death of her kind mother, and 
at the uncertain fate of Gaity, Edith moved mournfully 
around those walls once echoing with the merry laugh and 



108 • GAITY. 

song, now so silent, so dreary, as if the shadows of the 
tomb already darkened them. 

W"ho Jkat has lost a near and dear friend by death but 
has felt mat indescribable sickness of heart, which rends 
the soul to agony, as they view those scenes once hallow- 
ed by the presence of that loved form, whom now the 
dark portals of the tomb enclose ! Scenes where the be- 
loved one moved in health and gladness; the vacant 
chair by the fireside, the seat left void around the family 
board, the closed book, the favored flower, the thousand 
nameless associations connected with those now lost and 
gone ! Oh, does it not seem that the hand of death is 
already tearing our heart-strings ; loosing our hold of this 
world, so glorious in its grandeur and beauty, but where, 
alas ! Death and sorrow stalk side by side, plucking the 
choicest treasures from our garnered affections, and ruth- 
lessly cutting down the lovely flpwers which adorn our 
garden of happiness. 

Pity, then, poor Edith ! 

She mourned as an affectionate child, the death of a 
kind mother, whom on earth she should see no more — 
yet sainted, as she believed, in heaven. But not for her 
did she weep those tears of bitterness ; not for her was 
that silent grief gnawing at her heart ; no, it was for that 
other ^ her only beloved sister, the discarded Gaity; cast 
out in her youth and loveliness, an alien for ever from 
her father's house ! 

From neither her father nor brothers could Edith learn 
any thing concerning her ; in vain she implored them to 
tell her where the wretched girl might be ; on her knees 
she begged to be allowed to go to her, but, with a frown, 
and words, such as he had never before used to this 



GAITY. 109 

gentle girl, Mr. Trevor forbade her ever again to mention 
the name of her sister, or, on pain of his lasting dis- 
pleasure, seek to know where she was. 

Nothing daunted, however, from her purposejEdith re- 
solved she would find her sister or perish in the attempt. 
Feigning, therefore, the most perfect indifference as to the 
fate of Gaity, (contradicted by her pale cheek and sunken 
eye,) she no longer mentioned her name, but appeared to 
giy^e all her atcention to the many household duties which 
now devolved upon her. ^ 

She soon noticed that, on a certain day of every week, 
one of her brothers left the Grove and remained absent 
during the day ; that no questions were ever asked, 
either as to where they had been or of the business which 
had called them thence. She was sure their absence 
was in some way connected with her ill-fated sister, and 
she resolved, difficult as it might prove, to follow them. 
For that purpose, she obtained permission of her father to 
pass the day with a young friend residing about a mile 
from the Grove. This was the day she knew one of 
her brothers would be absent. Instead, therefore, of go- 
ing to her friend's, she hastened to the cottage of one of 
her father's tenants, whom she knew to be strongly 
attached to herself and Gaity. To him she unfolded 
her plan, and found in honest Jacques a faithful assist- 
ant. 

As soon as Walter passed the cottage, Edith, disguised 
in a large cloak and bonnet, mounted behind the old man, 
and started in pursuit ; keeping, however, as far behind 
as was practicable. The same dreary road was passed 
over with which the reader is already acquainted. Wal- 
ter fastened his horse as before, while Edith and her 



110 ^, GAITY. 

companion, passing behind the shelter of some large 
rocks, watched his proceedings, the noise of their 
horses' feet being happily drowned by the roaring of the 
surf, flp 

Walter unmoored the boat, and put off in the direction 
of Fisher's Island. It was if^ere, then that the unfortu- 
nate girl was a prisoner. It was, however impossible for 
them to proceed further ; Ihey, therefore, returned with 
all speed. 

Happy that her plan had so far proved successful, Edith 
determined, that, if possible, not another day should pass 
without renewing the search, and confident that her 
sister was on the island, she retired that night to rest, 
with the blissful anticipation that on the moriow she 
should fold her beloved Gaity to her bosom. 

Again she asked permission for a day's absence, and 
her father, delighted to find her once more evincing a 
disposition to mingle in society, gladly consented. 

With the faithful Jacques, Edith was soon traveling 
the route of the preceding day. Arriving at the beach, 
they found the boat concealed among the rocks. It was 
soon launched, and trembling with anxiety for the result, 
filled with evil forebodings, Edith seated herself by the 
side of Jacques, and they were soon rapidly nearing the 
Island. 



CHAPTER IV. 



It was now May. The long, dreary winter had passed ; 
once more the trees put forth their leaves ; gaily the birds 
warbled amid their branches, filling the air around with 



GAITY. ^ 111 

their sweet melody. The beautiful flowers, too, sprung 
up with the bright green grass, and all nature rejoiced in 
the glad presence of spring. 

But alas ! there was no spring in the heart %the poor 
forsaken Gaity. Her slender form had wasted away un- 
til it seemed too frail to support its lovely burthen ; her 
cheeks were sunken and colorless as marble ; her beauti- 
ful hair had lost its brightrifegs, save where the silver 
thread already gleamed unnaturally among the tresses of 
the doomed girl. Her eye, too, now shone with a strange 
and terrible brilliancy. 

Whether it was the mental suffering she ever endured 
for her wretched lot, uncertainty as to the fate of her lov- 
er, the reflection, too, that she was an outcast from her 
family, with a parent's curse ever ringing in her ears ; 
whether it was this, or the constant companionship of that 
most hideous old crone whom her father had placed about 
her, which harrowed her soul to madness, is difficult to 
determine — but the fatal reality was accomplished — 
Gaity was a maniac ! 

Much physical suffering, too, had the poor girl en- 
dured. Compelled by hunger to eat food from which 
her father's menials would have turned away in scorn ; 
at times almost perishing with cold, and shut out from 
that pure air where, like a bird, she had ever roved in 
freedom ; alas ! it is no wonder that Reason forsook her 
throne. 

For hours now would the poor girl pace with rapid 
steps around the walls of her prison ; shrieking wildly, 
and calling, with the most piteous lamentations, on her 
father — on Onowahoo to release her. Again, with wild 
dance and song, she would exhaust her feeble strength. 



112 ^ GAITY. 

Sometimes she would fancy herself again flying with 
Onowahoo from her father's roof; or that she was list- 
ening to that heavy curse ; for on her knees, while she 
would be^ her breast and weep, she would pray her fa- 
ther not to curse her. It was not always thus ; there 
were times when, for a few hours, Reason resumed her 
empire ; yet who can tell whether the mental struggles 
she then endured were not more dreadful than even the 
raving paroxysms of insanity ! 

It was during one of these lucid intervals that Gaity 
one morning saw two persons approaching the house, 
and one a female. With what eagerness she watched 
them ! as they drew near her heart throbbed tumultu- 
ously ! 

" Edith ! Edith J** she shrieked, as she recognized the 
light step of her sister. 

Edith eagerly raised her head to that solitary window, 
revealing the spectral face of Gaity, glued, as it were, to 
the glass. With a joyful wave of the hand, and a cry 
of delight, Edith now flew to the door. It yielded not. She 
knocked ; again and again, and shook the latch convul- 
sively. No answer was given, but she could hear the 
sobs and prayers of Gaity, beseeching some one to unbar 
the door. The sturdy Jacques, however, waited for no 
permission, but, seizing a billet of wood, he soon beat in 
the boarded casement, and springing through the open- 
ing, he drew Edith carefully within. The next moment 
Gaity had fainted on the bosom of her sister ! 

It were a vain attempt to describe the feelings of Edith, 
at the situation in which she found her sister. 

" father, cruel father, is it you have done this ?" she 
exclaimed. 



GAITY. 113 

■ 

Pressing the insensible form to her breast, she kissea 
that pale, altered face, while tears of pity and indignation 
streamed down her cheeks. 

At last, with a low moan, Gaity opened he^^eyes, and 
fixed them upon her sister. 

" Gaity, dear Gaity, have I found you at last !" sobbed 
Edith. 

" Who calls Gaity ?" she i^lied, springing from the 
arms of her sister, her eyes fl^hing with insanity. " Who 
calls Gaity ? Gaity is dead. They buried her with 
Onowahoo under the dry leaves. Ha — ha — ha ! You 
are late to the bridal." Then, advancing on tip-toe to 
Edith, she said — " Come, I am ready ! Hush ! tread 
softly ! Don't awaken mother , she sleeps. There, now 
row quickly ! See ! the Sloe-blossom will gladden the 
lodge of Onowahoo !" 

She then seized the hand of Edith, and hurried her 
up the creaking stairs. 

" Here is another birdie, Nell," she cried in evident 
delight. " Ha — ha — ha ! She is caged too .'" 

" Oh, my God, this is indeed terrible ! Gaity, dearest 
Gaity, don't you know me ?" cried Edith ; " have you 
forgotten me !" 

But Gaity made no answer ; apparently, her mind now 
wandered to the scene of her capture, for, with a horrible 
shriek, she now called on Walter for mercy. 

" Bind me — bind me — but, ! Walter, take off that 
chain from him — from Onowahoo. Have you no mercy ? 
No— no— no !" 

In this manner her ravings continued for more than an 
hour, when at length, perfectly exhausted, she sobbed her- 
self to sleep in the arms of Edith, who, as she became 



\ 



11^ % , GAITY. 

more quiet, had folded her to her bosom, and wept over 
her in agony. 

She now endeavored to obtain some information from 
the miserable old woman ; but it was in vain. Apparently 
alarmed at the sight of Edith, she had crouched down in 
a corner, and to all her questions only answered : 

" Go away — go away^^^ 

Long did the heart-sti^Bti Edith watch by the side of 
the poor manaic, and the "shades of night were already 
falling when the sufferer opened her eyes. 

The fit had passed off, and Gaity, now bursting into 
tears, threw her arms around the neck of Edith, murmur- 
ing, in a low, tremulous voice : 

" It is no dream, then, dearest Edith ? You have come 
to take me away ? You will carry me to my mother ? 
(Alas, she knew not that dear mother was dead !) " Dear 
Edith, take me home .'" 

" Yes, dearest Gaity, you shall go home, but not to- 
night. Tomorrow, dearest, I will come for you." 

" To-night, to-night," interrupted Gaity, " let me 
go to-night. Do not leave me again," she cried, clinging 
tightly around her. " O no, let us go — now — this mo- 
ment !" 

Edith, at length succeeded in calming the agitation of 
Gaity, and, after assuring her that the next day sh§ would 
return, and that she should go with her to her own dear 
home, she tore herself away from her embraces, and with 
a bleeding heart left the island. 

On reaching home, Edith went immediately to her 
father's room, where he usually spent his evenings 
alone. 



GAITY. * 115 

Concealment was vain. Throwing herself into his 
arms, she cried : 

" Forgive me, father, but I have seen her — I have seen 
Gaity !" 

Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Trevor gazed 
into the pale face of Edith, now bathed in tears, who, 
sinking on her knees and clampi ng his hand in hers, con- 
tinued : Ijj^B 

" 0, father, father, forgivener ! I conjure you, by the 
memory of my own dear mother, whose name I bear, and 
of that kind and gentle being who now looks down from 
heaven upon the sufferings of her child ; 0, I beseech 
you to forgive her. She is dying, father — yes, Gaity is 
dying! Father she. is a manaic ! O, bring her home, 
she can no more offend ; bless her and forgive her, ere 
she dies. 0, father, bring her home, or let me go and 
die with her !" 

The heart of Mr. Trevor was melted ; he folded his 
child to his breast, mingling his tears with hers. 
Edith again urged her suit, and related every circum- 
stance of her visit to her sister, only interrupted by the 
heavy groans which now burst from the bosom of the re- 
pentant father. 

" Your brothers have deceived me," he said ; " they 
have ^Iways assured me the poor child was well, and 
that in all their conversations with her she had never 
manifested any repentance for her misconduct." 

"Alas ! father," interrupted Edith, " they have never 
seen her — have never spoken with her !" 

Basil and Walter were immediately summoned, and 
after vainly attempting to equivocate, at length confessed 
the part they had acted. 



116 GAITT. 

" Out upon you !" exclaimed the miserable father. 
" What ! are you human ? Did I not entrust that wretch- 
ed girl to your charge, bidding you treat her with 
kindness ? Inhuman brothers ! you have murdered your 
sister /" 

There was no sleep at the Grove that night, and ere 
the dawn of day, Mr. Trevor, accompanied by Edith and 
Jacques, had set out for tlie island. 

Swiftly now was the boat propelled to the shore, and 
with rapid step Edith flew along the path conducting to 
the lone abode of Gaity, followed by her father, trembling 
with agitation at the thought of so soon meeting the vic- 
tim of his pride. As they approached the house, Edith 
looked up at the window where she had before seen the 
pale face of Gaity. She was not there. They entered 
the house — the silence of the grave rested upon it. Edith 
now rushed up the ruined staircase. The room was 
empty. In vain she called her beloved sister — echo 
alone replied. Filled with apprehension they now left 
the house and entered the forest, calling distractedly up- 
on the name of Gaity. For some time their search 
proved fruitless, when, suddenly, the faint sound of a 
voice reached their ears. Hastening eagerly in the di- 
rection from which it proceeded, Edith soon distinguished 
the tones of Nell, as if in entreaty, saying: 

" Come home, pretty bird ; come home, birdie !" 

Gently now, lest she might alarm her sister, Edith ad- 
vanced. Seated on the ground, her head reclining against 
a tree, was Gaity. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, 
while a sweet smile rested on her lips. Wreathed amid 
her long hair, which fell around her as a pall, was a 



GAITY. 117 

garland of wild-flowers, and her lap was full of these 
frail blossoms, just as in happy days of childhood she 
had plaited and woven them into garlands. One arm 
hung listless at her side ; the other lay across her lap, 
the long slender fingers still grasping the flowers. Over 
her bent the old woman, as if trying to awaken her. 

" Gaity, dear Gaily, we have come," cried Edith, 
springing to her side — but tlfCTe was no answer. 

She was dead I 

Oh the agony of that moment ! The grief and des- 
traction of the faithful sister ! The horror and remorse 
of the father ! repenting, now too late — the victim was 
far beyond his cruelty or his kindness ! 

From what incoherent words they could gather from 
the old woman, it appeared that Gaity had stolen out 
early that morning through the broken casement left by 
Jacques. When the poor girl found herself once more 
inhaling the pure air of heaven, with her foot again press- 
ed on the green-sward in freedom, she screamed with 
delight. Like a bird, she flew from spot to spot, singing 
the songs she used to warble in childhood, clapping her 
hands in ecstasy, and stooping to gather the wild flowers 
which sprung up in her path. In this manner she reach- 
ed the forest; and now the image of Onowahoo was 
brought, by association, to her v/andering mind. With 
child-like glee she called him to her, and then, as if car- 
ried back to those scenes where so much of her early 
life had been spent, she laughed and chatted as though 
the companion of her youthful sport was even now at her 
side. After awhile she appeared to weary, and, calling 
Onowahoo to sit beside her, she threw herself under a 



118 GAITY. 

tree, and for some time, laughing and singing by turns, 
amused herself in entwining the wild flowers she had 
gathered amid her hair. 

Death came now in mercy, disarmed of all his terrors. 
Gently he laid his hand upon her innocent brow, and she 
sank into his arms as a tired child on the breast of its 
mother, happy in the delud^ that her lover was at her 
side ; and that the trees, tSrbirds, and the flowers were 
the same that had surrounded her in infancy. 

Her remains were borne from the island, and placed at 
the feet of her mother. The flowers she had loved so 
well sprung up around her grave, nourished by the tears 
of her mourning sister, who daily visited the spot where, 
released from all suffering her beloved Gaity reposed. 



Nearly a year had passed since the death of the ill- 
fated Gaity, when, one morning, Edith as usual bent 
her steps to the spot so sacred to her affections. She 
started, as she drew near, to perceive some person al- 
ready there, kneeling by the grave of Gaity ! She softly 
advanced — 

" Onowahoo !" she exclaimed, springing to his side. 

He raised his head slowly, revealing indeed the fea- 
tures of Onowahoo, but so worn with care and suffering 
that it was almost impossible for another than Edith to 
have recognized him. 

*' The Sloe-blossom sleeps," said he, in a low, musical 
tone ; " she hears not the voice of Onowahoo !" 

" She is in heaven," replied Edith ; " she hears you 
there." 

The Indian raised his head, and looking upward, as if 



GAITY. 119 

he really saw the angel form of Gaity bending over him, 
remained for a few moments silent, then turning to Edith, 
he said : 

" Onowahoo departs for ever. He has seen the spot 
where the Sloe-blossom lies withered, and the heart of 
Onowahoo is crushed beneath." 

Stooping and plucking a violet from the grave, he was 
about to depart, when, with all the kind sympathy of a 
woman's heart, Edith took from her neck a little chain, 
woven from the hair of Gaity, and, placing it in his hand, 
said : 

" The tress of the Sloe-blossom wmII bind the wounds of 
Onowahoo." 

He made no reply, but, pressing the chain to his lips, 
waved his hand to Edith, and turned into the path which 
led to the forest. 



Mr. Trevor never recovered from the shock sustained 
by the death of Gaity, and lived out the remainder of his 
days a prey to remorse and wretchedness. 

To such as may be interested in the fate of Edith, it 
may give pleasure to learn that she afterwards became the 
wife of one who held a high office under Washington, 
and who distinguished himself nobly in the war of the 
revolution, and that the devoted sister was recompensed, 
by many years of happiness, for the sorrows she had en- 
dured in early life. 

Walter and Basil Trevor, although they openly espous- 
ed the cause of the Americans in the great struggle for 
liberty, were detected in several nefarious transactions 



120 GAITY. 

with the British fleet, which for some time lay off and 
on the harbor of Stonington. Held up to the scorn 
of their own countrymen, they were compelled to join the 
British, and soon met the death they merited. 



THE POET Li. 121 



THE POET hi. 



A FRAGMENT FROM THE CHINESE. 

Do not draw npon you a person's enmity, for enmity is never ap- 
peased — injury returns upon him who injures — and sharp words recoil 
against him who says them. — Chinese Proverb. 

On the green and flowery banks of the beautiful Lake 
Tai-hoo, whose surface bears a thousand isles, resting 
like emeralds amid translucent pearl, dwelt Whanki the 
mother of Li. The mother of Li ! Ah, happy distinc- 
tion — ah, envied title ! For where, far or near, was the 
name could rank with Li on the scroll of learning — re- 
ceiving even in childhood the title of the " Exiled Im- 
mortal," from his skill in classic and historical lore ! 

Moreover, he was of a most beautiful countenance, 
while the antelope that fed among the hills was not 
more swift of foot. Who like Li could draw such music 
from the seven silken strings of the Kin ! or when with 
graceful touch his fingers swept the lute, adding thereto 
the well-skilled melody of his voice, youths and maidens 
opened their ears to listen, for wonderful was the ravish- 
ing harmony. 

Yet although the gods of learning smiled upon this 
youthful disciple of Confucius, poverty came also with 
her iron hand, and although she could not crush the ac- 
tive mind of Li, with a strong grip, she held him back 
8 



122 THE POET Li. 

from testing his skill with the ambitious literati, both old 
and young, who annually flock to the capital to present 
their themes before the examiners. For even in those 
days as the present, money was required to purchase the 
smiles of these severe judges. They must read with 
golden spectacles — or wo to the unhappy youth who, 
buoyant with hope and — empty pockets, comes before 
them ! With what contempt is his essay cast aside, not 
worth the reading ! 

Sorely vexed, therefore, was poor Li — and what won- 
der — to know that he might safely cope with any candi- 
date in the " Scientific Halls," yet dare not for the lack 
of sycee (silver) enter their gates, lest disgrace might fall 
upon him. 

Yet Li was of a merry heart — and, as all the world 
knows, there is no better panacea for the ills of fortune 
than the spirit of cheerfulness. Thus, although poverty 
barred the way to promotion, it could not materially affect 
his happiness — no more than the passing wind which for 
a moment ruffled the surface of the lake, yet had no 
power to move its depths. 

Now it happened that one day taking his nets Li went 
down to the lake, and as he cast them within the waters, 
not knowing any one was near, he broke forth into a 
merry song, which sent its glad burthen far off to the lips 
of mocking Echo, like Ariel, seeming to "ride on the 
curled clouds." Now it also chanced, that within a grove 
of the graceful bamboo, which skirted the path down 
which Li had passed on his way, walked the great Man- 
darin Hok-wan. 

" Hi ! by the head of Confucius the fellow sings well !" 
he exclaimed, as the song met his ear, (for, as we have 



THE POET Li. 123 

said, Li had a voice of rare melody,) and forthwith issu- 
ing from his concealment, Hok-wan seated himself upon 
the bank and entered into conversation with the young- 
fisherman. 

If the mere melody of the voice had so charmed the 
mandarin, how much more was he captivated by the wit 
and learning of the youth, who, thus poorly appareled, 
and humbly employed, seemed to share wisdom with the 
gods ! Hok-wan stroked his eye-brows in astonishment, 
and then bidding Li leave his nets, he bore him off as a 
rare prize to his own house, where he that day feasted a 
numerous company. 

First conducting Li to an inner apartment, he present- 
ed him with a magnificent robe richly embroidered, to- 
gether with every article necessary to complete the toilet 
of a person of distinction, and when thus appareled, in- 
troduced him into the presence of his guests. And truly 
Li walked in among them with all the stateliness and 
hauteur of a man who feels that he is conferring an hon- 
or instead of being honored, as no doubt Li should have 
considered himself, in such an august assemblage of 
grave mandarins. With what an air he seated himself 
at the sumptuously loaded table ! where, according to 
Chinese custom of the higher classes, the various dishes 
of meats, soups, fish, preserves, etc., were all nearly hid- 
den by large bouquets of beautiful flowers, and pyramids 
of green leaves. 

And now no sooner had Hok-wan delivered with all 
customary formality the speech of welcome, and drained 
to the health of his guests the tiny goblet of crystal, em- 
bossed with gold, than rising to his feet, and joining his 
hands before his breast, in token of respect to his host, 



124 THE POET Li. 

Li called a servant, and bidding him take a part from all 
the good things spread before him, said : 

" Carry these to the dwelling of Whanki, the mother 
of Li. Say to her that as the sands on the lake shore, 
countless are the blessings of the gods, who have this 
day smiled upon her son. Bid her eat — for although 
from hunger he should gnaw his flesh, and from thirst 
drink his blood, yet not one morsel of this banquet shall 
pass the lips of Li unless his aged mother be also sus- 
tained by the same delicacies." 

At hearing which, all the mandarins, and Hok-wan 
himself, loudly expressed their admiration. Such is the 
esteem which the Chinese entertain for filial piety. 

This duty discharged, Li attacked the dainties before 
him like a hungry soldier, yet seasoning all he said and 
did with so much wit and humor, that the guests laid 
down their chop-sticks and listened with wonder. With 
the wine, Li grew still more merry — his wit cut like hail- 
stones wheresoe'er it lighted, and at his jovial songs the 
grave dignitaries forgetting their rank, (somewhat washed 
away by copious draughts of sam-shu,^) snapped their 
fingers, wagged their shorn heads, and even rising from 
the table embraced him familiarly. At length, when af- 
ter an interval of a few hours their hilarity was some- 
what abated, during which the guests walked in the 
beautiful gardens, or reclining upon luxuriant cushions, 
regaled themselves with their pipes, or in masticating 
their favorite betel-nut, Li made bare his bosom before 
them, and to their astonishment they found it was only 
a needy scholar whose praises they had been shouting. 

* A deleterious liquor distilled from rice. 



THE POET Li. 125 

A needy scholar ! 

How firmly they clutched their fobs, lest a canda- 
reen^ might jump into the pocket of the needy scholar. 
But of advice they were as profuse as grasshoppers in 
August. 

" Go to the capital — go to Kiang-fu" (Nankin the an- 
cient capital of the empire,) " thou wilt perplex the learned 
— thou wilt bewilder the ignorant !" said one. 

^^Hi ! this fellow Li will yet stand with honor before 
the emperor," cried another. 

" Appear boldly in the ' Scientific Halls' before the 
Examiners," said a third, " and never fear but thy name 
shall be cried at midnight from the highest tower in the 
city,t as the successful Li with whom no other candi- 
date can compete !" 

" When the wind blows over the field does not the 
grass bend before it !" said Hok-wan. " When the great 
Ho speaks will not inferiors obey ! the learned academi- 
cian Ho is my brother — ^to him then you shall go — one 
word from him, and even the judges themselves shall cry 
your name." 

" Ivory does not come from a rat's mouth, nor gold 
from brass clippings," thought Li, as he listened to these 
remarks — " a few candareens now would be better for 
me than all this fine talk — truly I must be a fool not to 
know all this stuff before. Yet by the sacred manes of 
my ancestors, I will go to the capital, and that, too, ere 
another sun ripens the rice-fields — furnished with a letter 
to the illustrious Ho, I may dare admittance." 

* A Chinese coin. 

t The custom of announcing the name of the successful candidates 
at the examination. 



126 THE POET Li. 

Giddy with wine, and with the excitement of high 
hopes for the future, at a late hour Li was borne in a 
sumptuous palankeen to the humble dwelling of Whanki. 

The poor old soul at first knew not the gay gallant 
who stood before her, so much had the gift-robes of the 
mandarin changed his appearance. 

" Heigh-yah ! but, Li, thou art as fine as a magpie," 
quoth she, raising her head from the pan of charcoal, 
over which she seemed to be simmering something in a 
small dish — " Heigh — and now I look at you again, I see 
you have drank of that cursed sam-sku — forever abhorred 
be the name of I-tih !^ With all thy wit dost thou not 
know the wise saying of Mencius — ^Like a crane among 
hens is a man of parts among fools /' (It may be in- 
ferred, I think, that the good old Whanki was something 
of a scold.) And while thou hast been guzzling, see 
what I have prepared for thee — what had I to do with 
birds-nest soup, and with shark's fins, and with pigeon's 
eggs from the table of Hok-wan ! My poor Li will be 
too modest to eat with the great company, I said to my- 
self, and I will not eat them, but warm them up to com- 
fort him when he comes back — look, here they are," 
(lifting the dish from the fire) " and yet thou comesthome 
like a well-fed, stupid swine !" 

" Now tush, mother," answered Li, " if thy son 
has been drinking with fools, they wore fine feathers — 
and now embrace me, for I am going to the capital." 

" Li, thou art drunk — go to bed — the capital in- 
deed ! Ah, cursed, cursed I-tih ! " exclaimed the old 
woman. 

But when at length Li convinced her that he was 

* The god of intoxicating liquors. 



THE POET hi. 127 

neither drunk nor crazy, but in reality about to start for 
Nankin, as a candidate for honors in the Scientific Halls, 
and with a letter to the great Ho in his pouch, Whanki 
knocked her head reverently before the shrine of the 
household gods in token of gratitude. 

The remainder of the night was passed in preparations 
for the journey, and just as the golden ripples of the lake 
danced in the rays of the rising sun, Li tenderly embrac- 
ed his aged parent, and set forth on foot for Nankin, more 
than a hundred miles distant. 

" Ah, the blessed bug," quoth the old woman, gazing 
after him so long as she could catch a glimpse of his large 
bamboo hat, " he will n6t want for rice any day — no sycee 
has he in his pockets, but such a tongue in his head, as 
will bring him food and honors." 

Whanki was right. In every hamlet he passed through* 
— in every cottage by the wayside, Li found a shelter 
and a welcome — the good people considering themselves 
amply repaid for their hospitality if the young stranger 
would but touch the strings of the pipa, or recite to them 
odes from the Shoo-king. 

In this manner he reached the capital, and crossing the 
marble bridge over the great canal, upon the eastern side, 
entered the city at the Gate of Extensive Peace. Going 
into the first barber's shop which offered, Li carefully 
plucked out his beard, (hear this, ye exquisites of modern 
days !) shaved his head anew to the crown, and platted 
his long black hair with red ribbons. Then entering an 
adjoining tavern, he exchanged his dusty, travel-worn 
garments for the rich dress presented him by Hok-wan, 
which he had preserved with great care for the occasion, 
and holding up his fan, to shield his eyes from the sun. 



128 THE POET Li. 

stepped forth into the busy streets, to look for the dwell- 
ing of the illustrious Ho. 

And next, within the Hall of Ceremony, in the elegant 
mansion of Ho, behold Li in the presence of the great 
man himself — for with the same audacity which marked 
his behavior at the dinner of Hok-wan, had Li given the 
door-keeper a vermilion card, leading Ho to expect a 
visitor of rank. Advancing three steps to meet him. Ho 
bows low to his stranger guest — then with graceful ease 
Li also advances three steps, and bows still lower — Ho 
again gravely steps forward and makes another saluta- 
tion — upon which Li again does the same — with a still 
lower bending of the body, Ho once more advances — 
"whereupon Li, nearly touching the marble pavements 
with his forehead, steps forward yet another three steps ! 
By this time their united and solemn paces had brought 
them near the couch upon which visitors are expected to 
repose themselves. And here again the same formali- 
ties were gone through with, as to who should first be 
seated thereon. But 3ezw^ seated, Li at once burst forth, 
with such a flow of wit and fancy, that Ho was completely 
captivated ere he knew the name or business of the dar- 
ing youth ! 

Now this was a capital stroke of Li. For the academi- 
cian cared not so much for any dignitary under the Em- 
peror Supreme, as he did for a man of learning, or even 
for one who could tickle the moments as they flew with 
witty jests, provoking laughter. Ho saw at once that Li 
not only possessed this recommendation, but that his 
knowledge could also ring on as many topics as there 
were bells to the Porcelain Tower. When, therefore, he 
had perused the letter of Hok-wan, which, after securing 



THE POET Li. 129 

his ground, Li put into his hand, and after having listen- 
ed to the history which the youth gave of his hard strug- 
gles, of his poverty, and earnest desire to come before 
the judges on the day of examination, than Ho, embracing 
him, bade him be of good cheer. 

" Now, by the sacred Budha!" he exclaimed, " learn- 
ing like thine shall win its crown without the aid of pro- 
pitiatory gifts, save to the gods themselves. Know, O 
Li, that Yang and Kau, who enjoy the smiles of the great 
emperor, are this year the examiners. To them shalt 
thou go, with no favor but my name — humble as it is, it 
shall cause thine to be enrolled among the literati of the 
Imperial Academy. 

No doubt Ho manifested great vanity in this, in so 
much as hinting that his " humble'^ name could balance 
with gold in the scales of avarice ! Nevertheless 
Li was delighted, and immediately set about piling up 
such a cloud castle as spread over his whole heaven of 
glory. 

And now the day of examination approached, and 

confident of success, Li boldly presented himself for ad- 
mission. 

Offering the memorial of Ho, which was to insure him, 
as he supposed, the favor of the judges, he was much 
surprised to see those great men, Yang and Kau, after 
turning over the missive with elevated noses, expressive 
of their contempt, cast it from them with scorn. 

" Heigh ! the academician Ho thinks to cheat us with 
bubbles ! He sends us a scrawl devoid of meaning, 
to bespeak our favor for an upstart without degree or 
title ! Yes — we will remember the name of Li /" Saying 
which they cast looks of bitter disdain upon the needy 
scholar. ^ 



130 THE POET Li. 

Then commenced the tedious formula of the examina- 
tion. The candidates, hundreds in number, were all 
obliged to undergo the strict search of the officers in at- 
tendance. Their robes, pockets, shoes, and even their 
nicely platted queues were examined, to see they had not 
secreted some essay or composition of some kind, which 
they might substitute for one written on the spot without 
preparation, when the examiners should command them. 
This done, they were all seated on long benches with 
their paper and pencils ready for the trial — the doors 
and windows in the meanwhile being closely barred 
and guarded, that no one from without should have the 
power of smuggling any written paper into the hands of 
the students. 

At a signal gun the theme for composition was given 
out, and like the velvet feet of butterflies, the pencils of 
the rival candidates glided smoothly and fleetly over the 
tinted paper. With perfect composure and ease, Li wrote 
off* his essay in the most beautiful characters, without 
a single erasure or omission — handling the subject with 
great skill and judgment, and gave it into the hands of 
Yang. 

" Heigh /" said Yang, without giving himself even 
the trouble to glance over it, but drawing his pencil deri- 
sively over the fair and beautiful characters, " I remember 
the name of Li ! What stuff' is here — why the fellow is 
only fit to grind my ink !" 

" To grind your ink !" quoth Kau, " say rather he is 
only fit to lace my buskins !" 

And laughing loudly at their own wit, the great judges 
Yang and Kau turned their backs upon the unfortunate 
Li. 



THE POET Li. 131 

Overwhelmed with mortification and rage, he rushed 
to the lower end of the hall, and there was obliged to 
remain until evening, as not until then could the doors 
be thrown open to give egress to any one. Here he had 
the vexation of listening to the jibes and sneers of those 
around him, and of seeing others promoted to honors, 
who were as far inferior to him as owls to eagles ! What 
a bitter day for poor Li ! and when at length dismissed 
with renewed contumely from the Scientific Hall, he 
rushed into the presence of Ho, swearing loudly that he 
would one day ride over the necks of the proud Yang 
and Kau, " and by the head of Confucius when I do — 
Yang shall grind my ink, and Kau lace up my buskins!" 
he cried with bitterness. 

Ho was terribly indignant at the treatment of his prO' 
tege, as well as incensed for the insult he imagined his 
own dignity had received. But, although he was him- 
self high in favor with the emperor, Yang and Kau stood 
still higher, therefore he dissembled his anger, lest his 
head might pay the forfeit, should those two powerful 
courtiers incense the emperor against him. 

When he found Li preparing to return home, he em- 
braced him kindly, and bade him tarry yet another year 
in the capital. 

" In the end thou wilt surely succeed, Li. The 
next year the examiners will not be the same, and thou 
may'st then be certain of success," said Ho. " Remain 
with me until the time comes round — thy days and nights 
shall roll oflf bright and rosy as morning clouds — wine, 
wit, and music, yes, and the smiles of women, shall make 
thee forget the insults thou hast received." 

But Li remembered his aged mother, sitting solitary in 



132 THE POET Li. 

her humble home by the side of the lake, and his resolu- 
tion strengthened. 

" Know, Ho, that an old mother waits for Li afar 
off. Summer and harvest will come, but Whankihasno 
one to sow her rice, and desolation will sit in her dwelling. 
The fish sport and gambol amid the waters of the lake — 
Whanki has no strength to draw them forth, therefore 
hunger and death will await her ! What profit, wise 
Ho, should I gain if my aged parent suffered ! Would 
not the gods curse the race of Li !" 

" Noble youth, take this purse — it is heavy," exclaimed 
Ho — "hasten to relieve the necessities of thy mother — a 
happy mother in so dutiful a son — then return without 
delay and await the examination. I promise thee, thou 
shalt not this time lack a present for the greedy judges — 
though by Budha, I would like to give it them at the 
dagger's point !" 

Accordingly Li bade farewell to his generous friend, 
promising to return as speedily as possible. 



PART II. 

A man who has a tongfue may go to Eome. — Chinese Proverb. 

Within the " Tranquil Palace of Heaven," Hwant-sung 
sat upon the Dragon's Throne, with all his court pros- 
trate before him. 

There was evidently " something rotten in the state 
of Denmark," for the clouds which vailed the august fea- 
tures of the Celestial Monarch were black as night — 
thunder might soon be expected, and low in the dust his 



THE POET Li. 133 

humble courtiers awaited the outpouring of his terrible 
wrath. 

Before his footstool knelt the Premier Yang, bearing 
in his hand an official document inscribed with curious 
hieroglyphics. 

" By my ancestors," exclaimed the emperor, with a 
wrathful look from one to the other of his trembling cour- 
tiers, *'a wise court is sustained by the bounty of Hwant- 
sung ! say rather a pack of idiots, asses, dolts, fatted 
dogs ! What ! shall we become a jibe in the mouths of 
foreign nations ! Shall barbarian kings mock the court 
of Nankin ! Hi ! Is there not one then of my learned 
counselors — not one of my renowned warriors can deci- 
pher me this scroll ! Tremble, then, ye hounds ! Yang, 
I command thee to make known to us the purport of the 
missive which the foreign ambassadors have brought to 
our court." 

At this order well might Yang turn pale — for there 
was no more meaning to him in the characters on which 
his eyes were fixed, than in the slimy trail which the 
green lizard draws upon the sand. Over and over he 
turned it — now on this side, now on that — watched nar- 
rowly and jealously meanwhile by all around — for when 
was one high in favor with princes also the favorite with 
the mass ! At length, nine times reverently knocking his 
head before Hwant-sung, Yang said : 

" Let not the displeasure of Earth's Glory, before whose 
frown the whole world stands affrighted, annihilate his 
slave that the gods have not granted him power to do the 
will of his majesty in this thing. He cannot read." 

Then did Hwant-sung call up one after another of those 
whose scholastic lore was famed throughout the empire. 



134 THE POET Li. 

In vain. Not one could understand the mysterious scroll. 
At which becoming exceeding wroth, H want-sung swore 
that unless within three days his ministers could make 
known to him the signification of the embassy, their offi- 
ces and salaries should all be taken from them — and if 
in six days they were still in ignorance, their death 
should release the empire from so many stupid owls ! 

Then did the academician Ho humbly present himself 
at the foot of the throne. 

" Will the emperor deign to open the ears of gracious- 
ness while the humblest of his slaves speaks ? Know 
then, mighty sovereign, there arrived last night at my 
house a man in whom all knowledge seems to centre. 
His mind, keen as the lightning, penetrates the most hid- 
den mysteries — ihere is no science, no art, which he hath 
not already mastered. Command then that he appear be- 
fore thee to make plain that which doth perplex thy maj- 
esty's servants." 

Hwant-sung rejoiced greatly at this information, and 
bade Ho bring the learned scholar at once into his pres- 
ence. 

But when Ho, eager with joy, related to Li the good 
fortune he had secured him, that audacious youth posi- 
tively refused compliance with the commands of the em- 
peror ! offering as an excuse, that as he was but a poor 
scholar, without title or degree, he dared not presume to 
appear before so much majesty. 

With this answer then the unhappy Ho returned to 
the palace, not doubling but the r&ge of Hwant-sung 
would vent itself not only upon Li, but also upon him- 
self. 



THE POET Li. 135 

Kneeling before the monarch, Ho exclaimed rever- 
ently — 

♦' Will your majesty once more graciously listen. At 
the last examination, this man of whom I have spoken was 
turned from the Scientific Halls in disgrace — his essay 
rejected by the Premier Yang and the General Kau. 
Will it then please thee to bestow some favor upon Li, 
that he may with more propriety come into this august 
presence ?" 

" It shall be done," exclaimed the emperor. " We con- 
fer upon Li the title of Doctor of the first degree, together 
with the purple robe and yellow girdle. Go bring him 
before us." 

With this mark of royal patronage. Ho retraced his 
steps with all the alacrity of a lover, and made known to 
Li the gracious favors of the emperor, supposing, doubt- 
less, that the student would rejoice as one long blind now 
suddenly restored to light, or as a famished man at a 
feast. But lo ! coolly putting on the robes of office, as if 
he had just cast them aside, with the air of a prince, Li 
signified to the great academician Ho his readiness now 
to obey the mandate of the emperor. 

Entering the hall of audience with all the grace and 
ease of a man bred in courts, Li advanced to the throne, 
and after paying the customary homage, rose to his feet 
and looked proudly around upon the assembly of grave 
men and gallant courtiers. 

The knees of the Premier Yang smote each other as 
he recognized the youth he had treated with so much 
contumely now suddenly brought into notice — and well 
did Kau now remember the name of Li — and it seemed as 



136 THE POET Li. 

if hot pins tore his flesh, into such agitation did that name 
now throw him. 

Hwant-sung- received the new doctor with condescen- 
sion, and placed in his hand the document which he was 
required to make plain. 

But Li, casting a meaning glance upon Yang and Kau, 
Said : 

" Can an indifferent scholar like myself presume to 
know more than these learned men ! Know, O mighty- 
emperor, thy servant was deemed unworthy of favor by 
thy commissioners Yang and Kau — surely, then, they 
must be more wise than Li." 

Charmed with the boldness of the youth, the emperor 
graciously smiled upon him, and motioned the two mor- 
tified examiners to withdraw. 

Then standing erect, his head thrown back, yet in an 
attitude of careless ease, Li opened the important missive, 
and without even glancing his eye over it to understand 
more fully its nature, read it aloud from beginning to end, 
in a clear, melodious voice. 

It proved to be a demand from the king of Po-Hai, 
couched in the most insulting language, requiring the 
emperor to restore a part of Corea, consisting of no less 
than a hundred and eighty towns, and also demanding 
tribute from the time of its " usurpation^^ (as the memo- 
rial expressed it) by the emperor of the Tang Dynasty. 
Thus, but for the skill of Li, the empire would have been 
plunged in irretrivable disgrace through the ignorance of 
its ministers. 

The countenance of Hwant-sung grew black as mid- 
night as he listened to this insulting claim, and but for 



THE POET Li. 137 

the bold remonstrance of Li, he would have ordered the , 
bearers of the embassy to instant death. 

*' May it please your majesty to summon the boorish 
ambassadors before us," cried Li boldly, " I will myself 
confer with them, and teach them how to respect the 
mighty Emperor Hwant-sung." 

Immediately, therefore, the ambassadors were brought 
before Li, who conversed with them in their own language 
with the same haughty bearing as if he himself were em- 
peror, interpreting as he did so to the indignant Hwant- 
sung. At length Li dismissed them, saying : 

" Tomorrow his sovereign majesty, to whom your 
prince is but an earth-worm, will indite an answer lo 
your insulting embassy. Retire — and tremble as ye walk ! 
Thank the gods that the gracious emperor deigns ye to 
live." 

The audience chamber rang with acclamation, as the 
ambassadors obsequiously withdrew in compliance to the 
orders of Li, and all the courtiers pressed forward to 
compliment the young doctor — while the emperor, em- 
bracing him, conferred upon him at once the rank of 
academician, and ordered apartments to be prepared for 
him in the palace of the Golden Bell. 

With continued graciousness, he also directed a sump- 
tuous banquet to be got in readiness, and at which all ihe 
learned men and wits of the court were expected to ap- 
pear. Wine was poured for the guests by beautiful 
young girls of the " golden lilies^'^ — ravishing music 
swept around them, while at intervals of the feast, the 
emperor sent from his own apartments a choice theatrical 
corps for their entertainment. 

9 * SmaU feet. 



138 THE POET Li. 

Now did it seem that all the trials of Li were over, his 
poverty bat a dream long past, and that now upon the 
pinnacle to which his ambition had pointed from early 
youth, he stood ready to hurl back in the teeth of his en- 
emies the disgrace which, only a few months before, they 
had heaped upon the name of Li. 

The feast wore on even into the night — the wine cir- 
culated freely, and in the same breath the courtiers exalt- 
ed the name of the emperor and of the young academician. 
What wonder that under the attendance of such charming 
cup-bearers Li should have drank more freely than was 
consistent with his new dignity ! How from such hands 
could he resist the tempting goblet ! 

The result was, that when the next morning the em- 
peror repaired to the Hall of Audience to treat with the 
embassy from Po-Hai, the academician Li was not in 
attendance — nay, did not make his appearance until after 
being twice summoned by royal mandate ! 

The courtiers whom Li had feasted the night previous, 
shook their heads and looked significant. The Premier 
Yang and the General Kau resumed their usual boldness 
of demeanor, for no doubt this upstart, this vagabond Li, 
would find the anger of their Celestial Monarch more 
than his head was worth — decapitation would certainly 
follow such contempt of royalty ! 

To be twice summoned — what audacity ! 

At length Li walked carelessly into the hall — his dress 
somewhat disordered, and his feet thrust negligently 
into slippers. But for those who were hoping his ruin, 
what rage to see the emperor not only extend his own 
royal hand in signification that he would raise him from 



THE POET Li. 139 

the ground, but also condescend to inquire after his 
health ! 

" I think, learned doctor, the wine was to thy fancy, 
yet meihinks the fumes are still troubling thee ! Ere 
we proceed to our public duties I would have thy wits 
clearer." 

Saying which, Hwant-sung ordered a plate of hot- 
spiced fish-broth to be brought from the royal kitchens, 
that its effects might dissipate the evils of last night's 
debauch. 

And when with unprecedented condescension their sov- 
ereign even took the chop-sticks, and himself cooled it 
for the palate of Li, amazement almost turned them to 
marble. 

When his majesty deemed the senses of his new favor- 
ite sufficiently restored, the ambassadors were summoned 
into the hall. 

Upon the top of the platform, near the foot of the 
" Dragon's Throne," was placed, by the order of Hwant- 
sung, a cushion or divan of the Imperial Yellow, em- 
broidered with gold and silver, and upon a tablet formed 
of mother-of-pearl, and richly set in a band of emeralds, 
was a cake of perfumed ink — a sheet of flowery paper — 
a hair-pencil set in a gold tube, together with a small 
jade stone, with which to rub the ink. 

Waving his hand condescendingly to Li, the emperor 
spoke : 

" Ascend the platform, learned doctor, and repose thy- 
self upon the cushions at my feet, while I indite to thee 
our answer to these slaves." 

" May it please your majesty," replied Li, " my feet 
are not in proper dress to approach so near the ' Glory of 



140 THE POET Li. 

the earth.' Will it please thee to command new buskins 
to be brought thy servant, that he may with decency as- 
cend the platform." 

This bold request was no sooner proffered than it was 
granted. And then, with a significant glance to the spot 
where stood Yang and Kau, pale with rage and envy, 
the audacious Li again addressed the emperor : 

" The humblest of thy slaves would not be officious — 
but he has one more request to lay at the feet of his gra- 
cious sovereign. At the examination this year, thy ser- 
vant was repulsed by Yang, and turned from the Scien- 
tific Halls in disgrace by Kau ! Will it therefore please 
thee to command the Premier Yang to grind my ink, and 
the General Kau to lace my buskins .'" 

Never, perhaps, was an audience-chamber so insulted ! 
even the awe which, in the presence of the Celestial 
Monarch, rendered the courtiers less men than jackals, 
failed in this case to suppress a murmur of indignation 
which passed from one end of the hall to the other. 

But Hwant-sung, well pleased to punish the injustice 
of his commissioners, immediately ordered them both to 
approach and do the bidding of Li ! 

To disobey was death. They wanted courage to die, 
therefore preferring disgrace, they obsequiously advanced. 
Kneeling, Kau laced the buskins of Li, who then ascend- 
ed the platform, and while reclining at his ease upon the 
soft cushion at the feet of the emperor, Yang stood at his 
side assiduously rubbing his ink ! 

Thus did Li accomplish his revenge, and triumph over 
his enemies ! 

Taking the pencil, he now, with rapid and easy strokes, 
proceeded to indite the answer, which the emperor vouch- 



THE POET Li. 141 

safed to the Po-Hai embassy, and while he did so, Hwant- 
sung bent over him in astonishment, beholding the char- 
acters which he traced with so much rapidity to be iden- 
tical with those which had so perplexed his court. 

Then standing erect upon the right hand of the " Drag- 
on's Throne," in clear distinct tones, Li read aloud the 
imperial answer — the ambassadors trembling with fear as 
they listened. 

" And now return," exclaimed Li, "and teach your 
king that foxes may not war with lions, nor the cuckoo 
steal into the eagle's nest ! He is like a vexed grasshop- 
per striving to combat the mighty chariot about to crush 
him, or like a fly in the jaws of the dragon ! When 
the mighty Hwant-sung, at whose name fear sits in the 
hearts of all nations, shall send a handful of men to seize 
upon the petty territory of Po-Hai, blood shall flow a 
thousand li /"^ 

Kneeling reverently before the throne, and knocking 
their heads in token of submission, the ambassadors then 
withdrew to relate to their king that the " Celestial Em- 
pire was upheld by an Immortal from the skies !" who 
stood ever by the throne of the Dragon, and to whom all 
men did reverence. 

From that day the star of Li was in the ascendant, and 
for many years he enjoyed the undivided confidence of 
the emperor, and attained a rank in the scale of letters, 
which renders the name of Li celebrated in Chinese lit- 
erature. Many volumes of his beautiful poems and 
other works are still preserved in the Imperial Libraries. 

^ Leaarues. 



142 LITTLE WINNIE. 



LITTLE WINNIE. 



Everybody said little Winifred Orne never would be 
married ; for she was too poor, too homely, and too wild 
— and of course what everybody says must be true, as we 
shall endeavor to prove. To account for this wonderful 
prevision, it must be owned the doom of single-blessed- 
ness did seem as it were shadowed forth in the person of 
little Winifred. Everybody said she was poor, and she 
was so — solely dependent from her earliest years upon 
the begrudged charity of a step-aunt, and no sooner was 
she old enough to run up and down stairs, go of errands 
and wipe dishes, than she was made to feel that the 
bread of dependence was ground in a species of tread- 
mill, upon which she was ever employed. I am wrong 
to say she was made to feel so — for so cheerful was the 
sunshine of the breast, which the Almighty had im- 
planted within her — so light and merry her little heart, 
that the idea of hardship never occurred to her — but at 
every call, every bidding, away flew little Winifred, as 
light as the humming-bird — all smiles, all brightness. 

Then everybody said she was so homely — true enough, 
unlucky little sprite ! Her complexion could not be 
compared to tlie rose, or the lily — it more resembled the 
saflron flower ; and then her eyes — mercy upon me, 
what large gray eyes ; And her mouth — and those 
great white teeth. Certain it is, no one could see them 



LITTLE WINNIE. 143 

without involuntarily thinking of poor little Red-Riding 
Hood's apostrophe to the disguised wolf — " Granny, 
Granny, what great mouth — what great teeth you've 
got ! " and then answered the sly wolf — " So much the 
better to eat you, my dear ! " And that obstinate little 
nose of hers would turn up as if in such scorn, no one 
ever saw such an impudent nose — that of the famed 
Roxana, which overturned the Turkish empire, was no 
nose at all in comparis*on ! If there was any thing 
which could redeem all this — it was her hair ; which fell 
around her as some thick golden fleece, so soft — so 
silky — but then it was the most rebellious hair ever 
tormented poor damsel ! Did she subject it to the con- 
finement of ribbon or braid — it was sure to make its 
escape ; or if she gathered it up with her little comb, 
like rich golden tassels glittering in the sunlight, some 
part of it was sure to fall dancing over her shoulder as 
she tripped away upon her many duties. Her foot, too, 
was so very small, that when her beautiful cousin 
glanced down upon it at times with a look of scorn — 
poor Winifred would look, and say too, as if in apology, 
" Dear me, I wish it vjas larger ! " and many a tap on 
the ears, and many a shake by the shoulder did she 
receive from her kind aunt, because her little hands 
were not able to hold the same weight as a young 
giantess. And then her little, short, chubby, round 
figure, always reminded one of a Dutch doll, dressed 
after the fashion of the ancient belles of New- Amsterdam ! 
Ag3.in, everybody said she was so wild! and so she 
was. Never was there such a romp, especially for a 
girl of thirteen ! Only to think of her walking into the 
parlor one evening and saying : 



144 LITTLE WINNIE. 

" Please, aunt, may I go to training tomorrow ? " 

She, thirteen years old, to training ! The look of 
dismay with which her aunt regarded her at that awful 
question — the pushing back of her spectacles ! and then 
the horror of her fastidious cousin — letting fall, in her 
propriety-shocked-nature, the elegant double cut Cologne ! 

" Farmer Smith is going tomorrow morning with 
Betsey and Nancy in his wagon — please, aunt, let me 
go ! " continued the persevering gipsy. 

There was no answer vouchsafed — but there was a 
rush, a rustle, a sound assimilating to the idea of a pair 
of boxed ears, and then, sinking back in the chair, Mrs. 
Orne exclaimed : 

'* Oh, that girl will ruin my temper ! " 

She could not even step without first giving those little 
feet of hers a twist and a shake which would have called 
forth the admiration even of the most inveterate Folka-r ; 
and then she was a perfect mocking-bird — the first sound 
in the morning was the voice of Winifred, mingling with 
the lark and the robin, and the last notes at eve, as the 
little songsters folded their plumed crests under their 
bright wings, were trilled in cadence with those of the 
merry maiden. But she was not content with mimic- 
ing the more sweet warblers of the grove — not she — for 
even the crow, and the cat-bird, and the owl, found 
a scholar ! in short, her little voice was ever ringing like 
the dew-drops tinkling among the bells of the lily of the 
valley. 

But it will never do to spend any more time upon the 
portrait of such an elf — as the Daguerreotype man says : 
'* Miss, that loill do !'' 

But there were two Winifred Ornes. And not more 



LITTLE WINNIE. 145 

dissimilar the beautiful garden-rose and the most humble 
wild-flovver, than were these two cousins. At a very 
early age they had both been consigned to the kindness 
of a paternal uncle ; but under very different auspices. 
The rose was an heiress and a beauty — the wild-fiower a 
dependent and ill-favored ! 

(We will call the latter Winnie^ to distinguish her 
from the elegant and lofty Winifred, who was six years 
her senior.) 

The figure, the movements of Winifred were all grace- 
fulness, which, with the dazzling purity of her complex- 
ion, her brilliant, dark, hazle eyes, superb teeth, fairy 
mouth, and luxuriant brown hair, combined to render her 
one of the most lovely girls, not only in the village where 
her aunt, (now a widow) resided, but, even the most 
fashionable and elite circles of the metropolis seldom dis- 
play a more brilliant belle than was Winifred Orne. Pity 
that one so fair and lovely should have lacked those at- 
tributes which would'have rendered her beloved ! for as 
the beautiful waxen fruit, which at first sight is so tempt- 
ing and pleasing to the eye, she was as deceitful and 
heartless. She was as proud as she was^ charming — 
peevish as she was graceful — haughty and overbearing 
to every one as she was rich ; and especially to her little 
cousin Winnie, who seemed destined for her peculiar 
amusement, exactly as some poor kitten for the torturing 
hands of a spoiled child. 

Both orphans — it would have seemed more natural that 
Winifred with all the means she possessed for doing good, 
would have delighted to share her wealth with her pov- 
erty-doomed cousin ; or at least that her helpless situa- 
tion, the perfect abandon of her lot, subjected as she was 



146 LITTLE WINNIE. 

to the taunts, caprices, and over-exacting duties of her 
harsh, ill-natured aunt, would have elicited some pity, 
some kindness. But it was not so — she looked upon her 
as something even below a servant ; and perhaps it was 
partly owing to the sly insinuations, the bitter taunts of 
the beautiful Winifred, that the heart of the aunt grew 
so cold and unfeeling ; and in proportion as she was cruel 
to the unfortunate little Winnie, she lavished every indul- 
gence, all her love, upon the rich heiress. But it was 
the hand of Winnie which swept and arranged the large 
commodious chamber of the beauty, and decked it with 
the foirest and freshest flowers — her hands which pre- 
pared the delicious breakfast of ripe berries and cream 
for the delicate palate of her cousin — her nimble little 
fingers that plaited the luxuriant tresses — arranged the 
toilet, and adjusted the wardrobe of the indolent girl — 
never rewarded by pleasant word or smile ; but if, on the 
contrary, she ventured upon any lively remark, or allowed 
her buoyant spirit to break forth in song, she was always 
checked with : 

" Do, pray, shut that ugly great mouth of yours, and if 
you have linished, go about your work." 

^^ Here, Wimiie ! '' screamed Mrs. Orne from the 
kitchen, and " Here, 1]l?i?iie .'" cried Winifred from the 
parlor, and from parlor to kitchen flew the cheerful girl 
never sullen, though weary, never impatient, though 
continually thwarted. If ever she thought of riches, it 
was when she saw the beggar driven from the door ; or, 
sometimes, as she looked upon the beautiful dresses and 
splendid ornaments the cousin often received from the city, 
and then down upon her own faded, patched and scanty 
calico, she would think it must be a fine thing to be 



LITTLE WINNIE. 147 

rich — but no shadow of envy darkened her brow, and 
in a moment the little gipsy was off amid the flowers and 
birds. 

She was a sly little witch, too ! Very well did she 
know where the old coverless volume of Shakspeare was 
hidden — or where Ivanhoe and Kenilworth lay perdu 
amid a heap of old meal-bags ; and, when seated in her 
little garret-room, with a heavy task before her, how nim- 
bly flew her fingers up and down the tedious seam ; her 
eyes now and then glancing with a peculiar, meaning 
smile, upon some odd corner or basket, or upon her own 
little cot-bed, from which she knew she could slily draw 
forth the Sketch-book, or some other favorite volume, if 
she only finished her task before ^^HereyWinnie /" sound- 
ed in her ears. 

Poor child I her reading was all done by stealth, and 
hours when she should have been recruiting her over- 
wrought frame by sleep, she might be seen perched up 
in her little bed, her elbow resting on the pillow, her 
small hand supporting her head ; her beautiful hair, 
which nearly swept the floor, pushed away from those 
great eyes, pouring by the light of a miserable candle 
over the enchanting page ; while her little white foot, 
escaping from the scanty bed-covering, beat a pas-seul to 
the throbbings of her delighted heart. 

Naughty girl ! what would aunt say if she should 
chance to catch you ! 

In the chamber of Winifred all the new novels of the 
day, the magazines, annuals, books of beautiful paintings 
and engravings were scattered around in profusion ; but 
sly, indeed, must be the peep which poor Winnie ob- 
tained ! Luckily, her eyes were large, and the hurried 



148 LITTLE WINNIE. 

glance she now and then caught of flowers, landscapes 
and beautiful faces, were delineated, according; to her 
self-taught skill, within a little book of coarse, white pa- 
per, which she managed to obtain from old sweetmeat 
covers and discarded wrappers. 

But Time never stands still, and, with but little varie- 
ty to tlie inmates of Mrs. Orne's dwelling, he brushed 
the years caivlossly behind him as he flew, until he 
brought round the period when the heiress had attained 
her twenty-third, and Winnie her seventeenth year. — 
The sparkling beauty of the one was in no degree im- 
paired by this lapse of time, while truth compels the ad- 
mission, that everyhodij said poor Winnie was just as 
plain as ever ; those great eyes and that large mouth 
still remained ! She had grown tall, however, and the 
buoyancy of childhood subsided into a more quiet cheer- 
fulness; and could any one have fathomed that depth of 
feeling which lay hidden, as in a well, in that pure heart 
of hers, what truthfulness, what unaflected goodness was 
there ! But no one ever took that trouble; and, for any 
thing her aunt knew or cared, provided she fulfilled the 
routine of her daily tasks, she might as well belong to 
the Maelzel as the human family. 

It was rather strange, too, that the lovely Winifred, 
with her great personal attractions, rendered, doubtless, 
in many eyes so much the more brilliant for the gold 
they commanded, should have remained thus long un- 
sought, unloved ; and in this opinion there is no doubt 
she herself perfectly concurred, for her mind was now 
continually wandering to a future of single blessedness ; 
and, to the exclusion of her prayers, she might now be 
often heard repeating : 



LITTLE WINNIE. 149 

" They don't propose — they wont propose, 
For fear, perhaps, I'd not say ' yes ' — 
Just let 'em try — for, heaven knows, 
I'm tired of sinr/le-blessedness !^^ 

But about this time Mrs. Orne received a letter from 
a distant relative, residing in or near New Orleans, 
stating, in true mercantile phrase, that he had consigned 
to her care, not a bale of goods, but a nice young man, 
his invalid son, who, being recommended by his physi- 
cians to try the climate of the north, was booked and 
shipped for the port of Boston, and, provided his kind 
kinswoman could receive him, would come to hand [acci- 
dents excepted] in a very few days. 

Receive him ! to be sure they would, for was he not 
five-and-twenty, and sole heir to one of the most valua- 
ble estates at the south, including scores of wooly-heads ! 
Indeed, as Winifred observed, hard, indeed, must be the 
heart which could resist such an affecting appeal to sym- 
pathy ! 

The best chamber in the house was, therefore, imme- 
diately prepared, Winnie ordered to keep out of the way, 
(for it is always difficult to account for the taste of a 
young man,) and, in due time, pale and languid, Sydney 
Cleveland arrived, was met at the door with the utmost 
cordiality by Mrs. Orne, while Winifred, blushing like a 
half-blown carnation, suffered herself to be surprised by 
the interesting invalid in arranging a vase of the sweet- 
est flowers upon his snowy toilet. The large black eyes 
of Cleveland beamed with sudden animation, as he fol- 
lowed her graceful retreat from his chamber, and a flush 
of pleasure suffused his pale countenance as he learned 
this most lovely girl was to be his daily companion. 



150 LITTLE WINNIE. 

From this time there was nothing left undone which 
could contribute to the comfort and amusement of the 
invalid. There were delightful little rides, in which 
Winifred, with her delicate, gloved hands, performed the 
graceful charioteer ; and quiet and shady walks, while 
the nicest and most dainty comfits, jellies and syllabubs 
were continually tempting the fickle appetite of the 
young southerner ; all of which, as Mrs. Orne assured 
him, were prepared through the kindness and skill of 
Winifred. It surely would have been very ungrateful 
in Cleveland not to have been happy in his present situa- 
tion, where his comfort alone seemed to form the sole 
anxiety of his hospitable friends. 

And all this time he had never once seen Winnie ! 
although she was ever occupied in preparing those very 
delicacies for his comfort, (as the reader has probably 
surmised,) for which her beautiful cousin received such 
full and ample credit. Nor yet was Cleveland in love 
with Winifred ; an omission on his part for which he 
himself could not refrain from surprise ; for when, like 
some beauteous sylph, she first appeared before his 
entranced vision, he had placed himself in Cupid's calen- 
dar, for several days at least,. as " fathoms deep in love." 
But these first impressions soon passed away. That she 
was beautiful he could but acknowledge, and very kind 
also he believed; yet there was something more than 
beauty required to touch such a heart as his, and he 
very soon discovered that this was all the claim which 
she possessed to his admiration. 

It happened one afternoon that Cleveland strolled forth 
for a solitary ramble in the adjoining woods. For some 
time he sauntered leisurely along, absorbed in the quiet 



LITTLE WINNIE. 151 

beauty of the scene, listening to the divine melody of 
nature uplifted from every blade of grass, from every 
flower, and swelling in delicious cadence through the 
forest trees, when his ears were suddenly saluted by one 
of the sweetest voices he thought he had ever heard, 
reading aloud with the most graceful and correct intona- 
tion. Softly advancing in the direction from which the 
voice proceeded, and cautiously putting aside the branch- 
es of a large sycamore, who should he behold but our 
wild, thoughtless Winnie ! Yes, seated like a little dove 
amid the tall brake, and nodding star-flowers, partially 
reclining against the mossy trunk of an aged tree, was 
Winnie ! her golden hair unfettered by comb or ribbon, 
sporting with the soft wind among the wild flowers and 
fragrant herbage ; a volume of Shakspeare in her hand, 
and at her feet a little wicker basket lay upset, from 
which, as if glad to make their escape, rolled forth the 
rich, ripe blackberries, hiding themselves under the 
mushrooms and broad-leaved clover, as if for a fairy 
banquet ; or rolling merrily down the flowery bank, 
swam ofl' triumphant on the bright dancing waters of the 
little brook. No doubt Winnie had been sent in a hurry 
to gather those very berries for supper ; and was this 
despatch ! — careless girl, sitting under a tree, and, like a 
young Siddons of nature's own teaching, declaiming from 
Shakspeare ! 

She had just finished Portia's eloquent appeal to the 
Jew, when a golden oriole perched himself upon the top- 
most bough, of the very tree that concealed Cleveland ; 
and, as if he felt himself called upon to contribute his 
share for the general entertainment, plumed his little 
wings, smoothed his downy breast with his bright bill, 



152 LITTLE WINNIE. 

and after a low trill of the sweetest notes, gushed forth, 
into a strain of the most enchanting harmony. No 
sooner had the last note fainted on the balmy breeze, 
than Winnie, throwing back her head, and lifting those 
great eyes to the giddy perch of the oriole, echoed every 
note, every thrill of his beautiful song, with a truth and 
melody almost startling. Master Oriole seemed not in 
the least offended at this liberty, but hopping back and 
forth a moment on one leg, nodded his bright crest to 
Winnie, as if to say, " Try it again, will you ?" and 
once more, his little breast, swelling with pride, poured 
forth his delicious notes. 

But now, other notes, less " linked in dying sweet- 
ness," were added to this agreeable concert. 

" Winnie, Winnie !" screamed a shrill voice, and Mrs. 
Orne herself appeared upon the scene. 

Did not Winnie spring to her feet ? and did not she 
hasten to raise the careless basket, and recover the truant 
blackberries ? 

" What have you been doing, I should like to know ?". 
said Mrs. Orne ; " here it is almost sun-down, and you 
are wasting your time like this, when you have those 
rice-cakes to prepare for Mr. Cleveland's supper." 

" Indeed, aunt, I am very sorry," answered Winnie, 
" I had no idea it was so late. But I have every thing 
ready for the biscuits, and Mr. Cleveland shall have them 
in time." 

" What is this — a book ! Oh-ho, this is the way you 
spend your time, is it, Miss Winifred ?" and snatching 
it from her hand, Mrs. Orne tossed it into the brook, 
saying : 



LITTLE WINNIE. 153 

" There, I wish I could drown all the hateful play- 
writers in the same manner." 

Winnie looked long and wistfully at her treasure, as 
it floated over the glistening white pebbles and mossy 
boulders, then, with a heavy sigh, turned and followed 
her aunt along the shady path leading directly to the 
house. 

Wrapped in amaze, had Cleveland witnessed the fore- 
going scene. He had listened, entranced, to the fine 
reading — watched the animated countenance of Winnie, 
and felt every nerve thrill with delight at her bird-like 
notes of surpassing mimicry ; and, then, like some ugly 
screech-owl, the voice of Mrs. Orne had dissolved the 
charm. He heard her address the unknown girl, not 
only as a menial, but as an inmate of her house and 
kitchen, while she, in return, had called Mrs. Orne 
" Aunt.'''' What could this mean ? He had seen the 
vehemence with which the book had been thrown into 
the stream; and it was the recollection of this which 
first recalled him to himself. Hastening to the brink of 
the little brook, he soon succeeded in recovering this 
(doubtless) priceless treasure of the young girl ; and, 
wet as it was, he could not refrain from pressing it to his 
lips ; then carefully wiping it with his handkerchief, he 
placed it in his bosom, determined if possible to solve the 
mystery, and restore the book to its rightful owner. 

Curiously did Cleveland pry in at the back windows 
and doors, as he returned to the house, and with an air 
of great abstraction did he take his seat at the neatly- 
spread supper-table. But there were those promised 
rice-biscuits, whiter than snow, and there those identical 
blackberries, sprinkled over with fine powdered sugar ! 
10 



154 LITTLE WINNIE. 

For some reason they were the sweetest and the best, 
both biscuit and berries, he had ever tasted, nor could he 
refrain from descanting upon their merits with true epi- 
curean fluency. 

" Yes," said Mrs. Orne, looking at her lovely niece, 
" our dear Winifred excels in making these little 
niceties." 

" And these berries," continued Cleveland, fixing his 
eyes upon Winifred, " is it possible you ever scramble 
among hedges and briars, at the risk of wounding those 
delicate fingers ?" 

" As you see," interrupted Mrs. Orne, pointing to the 
dish, " she considers the risk as only adding to the 
pleasure of catering for the tastes of her friends." 

Cleveland made no answer — a peculiar expression 
passed over his countenance, and then, as if determined 
to probe their falsehood to the utmost, he said, taking the 
Shakspeare from his breast : 

" By the way, my dear madam, the nymphs and 
naiads of your groves and streams, must be more than 
usually intellectual ; for, see what some of these elfin 
sprites left floating on the silvered surface of their foun- 
tain home. I found it near to a beautiful water-lily, 
probably the canopied throne of some naiad queen ; who, 
summoning her beauteous elves around her, had just 
been charming their ears with the history of Titania and 
her ' gentle changeling.' " 

For a moment Mrs. Orne lost her self-possession — but 
it was only for a moment — then turning to Winifred, she 
shook her finger at her playfully, saying : 

" Ah, ha, little book-worm, you are caught ! Now, of 
what, or whom were you thinking, that you should thus 



LITTLE WINNIE. 155 

have abused poor Shakspeare — sending him adrift among 
the lilies and water-cresses ?" 

Cleveland turned quickly, to witness the effect of this 
speech upon the party addressed. 

Perfectly calm, and without the least pertubation, she 
replied : 

" Why, my dear aunt, I suppose I must have dropped 
the book into the stream, unconsciously, in my musings ; 
although, as to whom my abstraction was owing, I must 
retain as my own secret." And here a gentle sigh, and 
a glance upon Cleveland, at once solved the riddle. 

" Then you — you like Shakspeare ; and you — you 
have — been reading in the woods to-day ?" stammered 
Cleveland, as if, in reality, he was the guilty one. 

" Oh, I dote on Shakspeare !" cried Winifred, " and 
always take his delightful muse with me in my solitary 
rambles ; I have been thus indulging to-day. I am so 
glaa you have found the precious volume ! I feared, 
through my carelessness, I had irrecoverably lost it !" 
Ana here she reached forth her snowy hand for the 
booiv. 

*' Permit me to retain it," said Cleveland ; " after this 
conversation, it is of peculiar value in my eyes !" 

Winifred blushed, and after a few pretty little coquet- 
ries, suffered her lover (as she now felt assured he was) 
to replace the volume next his heart. 

It is a copy-book maxim, but yet not the less true, that 
" Patience and perseverance overcometh all things ;" and, 
therefore, by patience and perseverance, Cleveland, at 
length, formed an acquaintance with the poor, despised 
Winnie ! 

And now, was it not really ridiculous, that the elegant 



156 LITTLE WINNIE. 

Cleveland, the rich Southerner, the accomplished man of 
talent and education, should have steeled his heart 
against the charms of the beautiful heiress, only to fall in 
love with such a girl as Winnie ? passing by the magni- 
ficent bird of paradise, as it were, to take to his bosom 
the humble little brown thrush ! 

Nor did he conceal from Mrs. Orne and Winifred, his 
admiration (although he spoke of no warmer sentiment) 
for their lowly relative ; but their sordid minds, could 
not, for a moment, imagine that one so poor could be 
more than as a passing shadow in his thoughts. Health 
again revisited the frame of the young Southerner ; 
sparkled in his eye, and glowed upon his cheek ; and it 
was with regret that, as the autumn advanced, he pre- 
pared to leave the quiet village for the bustling scenes of 
New Orleans. 

The morning of his departure, he found himself for a 
moment alone with the unsuspecting object of his aflfec- 
tion. Taking her hand, he said : 

" I shall write you, dearest Winnie, immediately upon 
my arrival at New Orleans, and make known to you all 
my hopes and projects; then, if, as I trust, I am not 
indifferent to you, by the blessing of God, I will soon 
return and claim you as my bride. Do not forget me, 
dear Winnie !" 

Winnie made no answer, but timidly raised those eyes, 
now positively beautiful, swimming in tears to his. He 
read their language aright. For one moment, he held 
her to his heart ; the next, she had vanished, and Cleve- 
land turned to receive the farewell of Mrs. Orne and 
Winifred ; upon which affecting occasion, the latter 



LITTLE WINNIE. 157 

chose to resort several times to her smelling-bottle to 
sustain her fainting frame. 

How frail the promises, the oaths of man ! 

Poor Winnie ! Weeks and months rolled away, each 
succeeding the other in melancholy tediousness : but no 
letter, no message ever came from him who had won the 
treasure of her young heart's pure affection. Too guile- 
less herself to suspect guile in others, she ever pardoned 
and exculpated his negligence. There were a thousand 
unforeseen circumstances, she was aware, which might 
have prevented the speedy fulfillment of his promises. 
She should yet hear from him ! 

What then must have been her feelings when Mrs. 
Orne one day informed her that her perjured lover, the 
faithless Cleveland, had months since made proposals of 
marriage to her cousin Winifred — that ihey were ac- 
cepted — and that the preparations for so happy and 
desirable a union must commence immediately. And 
what a show of triumph flashed from the eye of the 
haughty heiress, as she glanced upon the pallid features 
of her cousin ; and what importance stood forth starched 
and stiff in the folds of Mrs. Orne's turban, and in the 
shining gold spectacles, as she made the announcement I 

And how did Winnie bear it — do you ask ? 

Why bravely — and like a sensible girl as she was ! 
True — her step became less fleet — and that happy ex- 
pression which had ever beamed on her features, seemed 
somewhat subdued. The rescued Shakspeare was laid 
aside, and all the birds of the forest might have warbled on 
un-imitated by her once sportive voice — yet was she ever 
cheerful — ever ready and willing to assist in preparing 
the costly trousseau of the happy bride elect. She it 



158 LITTLE WINNIE. 

was who made the rich loaves of wedding-cake — her pure 
taste which suggested the ornaments for the same ; and 
not until all the arrangements for the wedding were per- 
fected, even to the placing of the chair for the officiating 
clergyman, did Winnie with faltering voice, in the dusky 
twilight, make known her one only request — viz : that 
she might absent herself from the festive scenes. This 
being exactly what her aunt and cousin most desired, she 
received a ready permission to do as she pleased. 

Bright rose the sun the morning the bridegroom was 
expected to arrive — like fairy jewels wrought by moon- 
light, the dew-drops hung glittering on leaflet and flower 
— bright, glancing butterflies shared with the golden- 
dusted honey-bee the sweet nectar from the heart of the 
rose, and the lily's cup — and the birds gaily rustled 
among the branches, sending forth from their leafy 
bowers their heart-cheering notes. 

At length a carriage passed rapidly down the street, 
and drew up at the door of Mrs. Orne ; while from it, 
elate with love and happiness, young Cleveland sprang 
eagerly forth. With bridal favors most becomingly 
arranged, and her new lace cap phalanxed by triple rows 
of white satin bows, Mrs. Orne met him at the door with 
open arms, and in the most afiectionate terms bade him 
welcome. 

" My dear aunt, (for so I may now call you,) this is 
indeed kind," exclaimed Cleveland — " I almost feared 
the result of my application. But where is my sweet 
Winifred ?"" 

There was a visible perturbation in Mrs. Orne's man- 
ner, as she replied : 

" She was so much overcome by your arrival, that she 



LITTLE WINNIE. 159 

was obliged to retire for a few moments — she is all sensi- 
tiveness, dear child ! but I will hasten and send the little 
trembler to you." 

Mrs. Orne now left the room, and in a few moments, 
rustling in white satin and blonde, (for the ceremony was 
to be consummated almost immediately,) Winifred 
tripped blushingly into the room. 

" My dear cousin," cried Cleveland, advancing to 
meet her and raising her little hand to his lips, " and 
you, then, are the first to greet me ! Thank you, thank 
you, but where, where is our dear Winnie ?" 

" Winnie ! Winnie !" replied Winifred, turning even 
paler than the pearls which clasped her beautiful throat, 
*' I really don't know." 

At this moment Mrs. Orne returned. 

" Ah, you are here, little coquette ! but I will not dis- 
turb such halcyon moments — only to beg of our dear 
Sydney to partake of some slight refreshment after his 
ride ; eating, however common-place, I believe is not 
yet banished from the code of lovers." 

Winifred blushed and turned her eyes languishingly 
upon Cleveland, who, in evident perplexity, looked from 
one to the other, and then again demanded : 

" Surely Winnie must know of my arrival ! where 
shall I find her. Miss Orne ?" 

*' Indeed I know not that I am accountable for her 
freaks," replied Winifred, and with a toss of her pretty 
head she left the room, followed in dignified silence by 
her aunt. 

" What can this mean !" thought Cleveland, and after 
waiting a few moments, eagerly listening to every step 
that approached the door, he strolled out into the garden. 



160 LITTLE WINNIE. 

but no Winnie made her appearance, and continuing his 
walk he soon found himself near the wood where he had 
first seen her. As if confident he should here find the 
object of his search, he hastily advanced, and there in- 
deed in the very spot where he had first beheld her, pale 
and tearful, knelt Winnie ! Her hands were clasped as 
if in prayer, and with an emotion it were difficult to 
describe, Cleveland heard his own name pronounced in 
the most tremulous accents ; as if she was interceding 
for his happiness. 

"Winnie, dearest Winnie," he cried, rushing to her, 
and clasping her to his bosom — " what means this — why 
are you so sad ?" 

"Mr. Cleveland, sir, let me go, I beg of you," an- 
swered Winnie, trembling in every limb, " why do you 
insult me ?" 

" Insult you, dear Winnie ! what mystery is here ! 
are you not my own, my promised bride ! then why 
these tears ? why shun me thus ? do you repent of your 
engagement ?" 

" This is more than cruel," cried Winnie, bursting 
from him, her face glowing with indignation — " such 
language from you — from you^ in a few moments to 
become the husband of another, is too contemptible." 

" The husband of another ! do I hear aright ! for God's 
sake, Winnie, dearest Winnie, explain your words !" ex- 
claimed Cleveland. 

And perhaps while we leave the perplexed Cleveland 
listening to the tremulous words of our Winnie, we may 
as well solve this apparent mystery. We must do it 
quickly, however — for already the eyes of Winnie are 
sparkling with love and happiness, and her cheek glows 



LITTLE WINNIE. 161 

like the rose, as reclining on the arm of Cleveland he 
leads her to the house where the bridal guests are already 
assembling. 

That Cleveland had written to Winnie as he promised 
is true, and very well did Mrs. Orne and Winifred know, 
as they took it from the hands of the postboy, for whom 
this letter was intended ! At first their rage and morti- 
fication prevented all action — but growing more calm, 
these worthy relatives determined to destroy the happi- 
ness of Winnie by a bold act, and build that of the 
deceitful Winifred upon the ruins ! And this too could 
be done with perfect safety for the present at least ; for 
although she knew the Winifred Orne thus addressed 
had no allusion to Aer, she resolved to take the advantage 
of owning the same name I And what if a storm did 
arise at the denouement I They flattered themselves the 
net would then be too secure for their victim to escape, 
and that in spite of Cupid and justice, the heiress would 
find herself at length Mrs. Sydney Cleveland. 

And thus the plot was woven. The most affectionate 
letters were returned to New Orleans, both from Wini- 
fred and Mrs. Orne ; and, perfectly unconscious of the 
gross deception passed upon him, Sydney Cleveland at 
the appointed time departed for the North to claim his 
bride. 

How he was received the reader already knows. 

But the results ! 

Why, that Mrs. Orne and the treacherous Winifred, 
even in the presence of the gray-haired minister, and 
the assembled guests, were forced by the resolute and 
indignant Cleveland to acknowledge the base part they 
had acted ; and that then, even as she leaned on his arm, 



162 LITTLE WINNIE. 

in her neat gingham dress and plain muslin cape, the 
lioly man blessed and made them one ! 

The cake remained uncnt, the guests departed — Mrs. 
Orne raved ; and, buried in her superb blonde vail, reck- 
less of satin and jewels, Winifred had the pleasure of 
performing several hysteric and fainting fits solely for 
her own amusement, while far on their route to the city.. 
Cleveland and his dear Utile bride were borne happily 
along. 

And now everybody said, they always knew Winnie 
would be married before that proud and haughty beauty ! 

And everybody was right. 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 163 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

PART I. 

Mr. Oakly was a rich man. Stately dwellings and no- 
ble warehouses were his ; he owned large and flourishing 
farnns, and the sails of his ships whitened the ocean. No 
man enjoyed a higher reputation on change ; no mer- 
chant's opinion was more quoted or depended on ; no man's 
integrity considered more spotless. Blest, too, w^ith an 
excellent wife, the world pronounced Mr. Oakly a very 
happy man. But where the mere surface of things forms 
the criterion of judgment, the world, wise as it is, is very 
apt to be mistaken. Mr. Oakly was not a happy man. 
Neither was he a favorite with the multitude ; and had 
not the magic of riches surrounded him, he would have 
had fewer professed friends, and many more open ene- 
mies — for his manners were arrogant and repulsive, while 
his deeds of charity were but as a feather in the scale 
with his power of being charitable. 

Mr. Oakley had paid a great price for his riches — no 
less a jewel than his own peace of mind. He might 
count over his heaps of gold, and talk about the just re- 
ward of long y6ars of industry and economy, and try to 
cheat even himself into the belief that his prosperity was 
but his deserts, yet well he knew that the foundation of 
his fortune was based on crime. Flatter himself, then, 
as he would, the whispers of conscience told him louder 
than the jingling of coin that it was mockery all ! His 



164 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

only child, too, was miserably deformed and lame ; thus 
it proved, with all his great wealth, he was neither an en- 
viable or a happy man. 

Mr. Oakly, with his family, were spending the warm 
months at his delightful country-residence on the banks 
of the Susquehanna ; and there our story takes us on a 
sultry August morning. Breakfast is just over, and now, 
while Mr. Oakly breaks the seals of various letters which 
the postman has just brought to the door, Mrs. Oakly 
listlessly looks over the city journals. 

^' So John is dead at last !" exclaimed Mr. Oakly, with 
something of relief in his tone, and throwing down upon 
the table a dirty-looking letter, with a huge black seal. 
" Died a pauper ! Well, I expected it, and so might he, 
when he refused compliance with the wishes of his 
friends." 

Mrs. Oakly looked up with some surprise. 

" Of whom were you speaking, my dear — a relative of 
yours ?" she inquired. 

" Only my brother," replied her husband coolly. 

" Your brother — and died a pauper ! You amaze me ! 
Pray how did it happen ?" 

" It happened, and justly, too, through his own folly 
and imprudence," cried the cold-hearted man — for even 
had his brother been the basest of criminals, he was his 
brother still. Death should have inspired some faint 
shadow of grief, if no more. 

" The fact is," continued Mr. Oakly, " John was too 
much favored in early life. He was my father's idol, 
and, to my disadvantage, favor after favor was heaped 
upon him. Although younger by several years than my- 
self, he was sent to college, I was kept at home — he had 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 165 

choice of a profession, I was forced to measure off tape 
and calico by the yard. He became dissipated, was 
wounded in some rowdy frolic, fell in love with, and 
married a girl of low family, who took care of him dur- 
ing his illness. Such conduct highly exasperated my 
father, who vowed that unless he would abandon this low 
connection forever, and return home, he not only would 
disinherit him, but would never see him more. John re- 
fused the terms ; the consequences were as my father had 
said, who shortly after died. I was his only heir, and, 
of course, as such, was bound to hold all my father's 
views sacred ; and as he never forgave my ungrateful 
brother, consequently, neither did I." 

So much for Mr. Oakly's version of his brother's his- 
tory. We shall see, bye and by, how far it may be de- 
pended upon. 

" But were you not aware of your brother's desti- 
tute situation ? " said Mrs. Oakly, somewhat reproach- 
fully. 

" Why, not exactly — at least I — I did not know it for 
z.fact. But, what then — suppose I did ; he chose his 
own path — what had 1 to do with it ?" 

Mrs. Oakly shook her head and sighed. 

" Did your brother leave any family ?" 

" Yes, so it seems — for here comes a begging letter 
from some country scribe, whereby it appears he has 
left a widow and two children — girls, too ; but read it 
yourself." 

Mrs. Oakly took the letter. 

" Sir, — Your brother, Mr. John Oakly, was buried 
yesterday at the expense of the parish. Upon his death- 
bed he requested that notice should be forwarded you of 



166 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

the event, and some assistance solicited on behalf of his 
destitute family. He leaves a widow, in delicate health, 
and two small children, both girls. As they are without 
any means of support save the little which the mother 
can earn by labor, I trust this appeal to your sympathy 
will not be in vain." 

" Well, my dear," said Mrs. Oakly, looking inquiring- 
ly at her husband, as she finished reading. 

" Well !" echoed her husband, " what concern is it of 
mine if ihey do starve ! It was all owing to his connec- 
tion with this same woman that his misfortunes fell upon 
him ; and now do you think I am going to encourage 
her arts by aiding her in her justly deserved poverty — 
no, not I, Mrs. Oakly." 

" Kevoke that cruel sentence, I beseech you, Alfred," 
said his wife ; " you surely will not let this appeal to 
your sympathy pass without notice ; do not, I entreat 
you, let the poor little ones suffer for their parent's 
fault ! " 

" Keally, Mrs. Oakly," cried her husband sarcastical- 
ly, " really, I hope I may do as I please with what is 
mine. Those who have no money of their own, and 
never had a cent in their lives, may well cant upon char- 
ity." 

There was evidently a bitter meaning couched under 
these words, for Mrs. Oakly colored deeply, and tears 
filled her eyes, though she made no reply, but throwing 
open the window upon the lawn, was about to step forth, 
when the nurse entered the room, leading by the hand a 
poor deformed little girl apparently about two years of 
age. The sight of his only and unfortunate child ap- 
peared to awaken a new train of ideas in the mind o 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 167 

Mr. Oakly. For some moments he walked the room in 
deep thought, now looking at the child, now at his wife, 
and then again resuming his measured tread. At length 
motioning the nurse, with her charge, to leave the room, 
he approached his wife, and in a much less arrogant 
manner, said : 

" My dear, a new idea has occurred to me, which, if I 
mistake not, may be productive of much good, not only 
to ourselves, but also to those for whom your sympathy 
appears so foolishly urgent. The more I consider of my 
purpose, the better I think of it. My brother, it seems, 
has left two little girls — very well. Now I propose tak- 
ing the youngest of these children as our own — " 

" This is indeed noble of you my dear husband !" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Oakly. 

" In lieu of our own poor Agatha," said Mr. Oakly. 

Mrs. Oakly screamed, and clasping her hands, sat pale 
as marble, looking up into the face of her husband. 

" Nay, my dear," said he, taking her hand with some 
tenderness, " I dare say you will feel very badly at first, 
but only consider the benefits which will arise from the 
exchange. Agatha is a poor, unhappy object, and as long 
as she lives, will be a sorrow and reproach to us. It 
will be very easy for me to induce this woman, my 
brother's widow I mean, to yield up one of her own chil- 
dren to me, upon the condition that if she will take all 
future charge of our poor Agatha, her own shall be brought 
up in every tenderness and luxury. There is one provi- 
so, however, to which I shall require oath — that is, the 
transaction is to remain forever secret — she is never to 
claim her own child, but on the contrary, to acknowledge 
Agatha as hers." 



168 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

Mr. Oakly paused, but his wife made no reply. It 
seemed as if surprise and grief had deprived her of 
speech. 

" We can pursue our plan the better," he continued, 
" as we have always kept Agatha secluded from observa- 
tion. It will be very easy for us now to give out word 
that she is under skillful treatment. By degrees we can 
report of her wonderful improvement, until at the end of 
some months or even a year, we can produce our adopted 
child in proof of our assertions." 

" But why is it necessary to do this ?" cried Mrs. Oak- 
ly, falteringly, "why not keep our own poor unfortunate, 
and at the same time adopt one or both of your brother's 
children ? God knows, Alfred," she added earnestly, " I 
will be a mother to them — I will cherish and love them ; 
but, oh, not so tenderly as my own poor Agatha !" 

" Nonsense, nonsense !" interrupted Mr. Oakly, hastily, 
*' don't you see how much disgrace and trouble you will 
save yourself by my arrangement." 

" Disgrace, Alfred ! and from our innocent babe !" 

" Hear me, if you please. You will have the double 
satisfaction of knowing that she will be well provided for, 
and kindly treated, while at the same time she can never 
trouble you by her agitating presence." 

" And to such a woman as you have described your 
brother's wife to be, would you confide so precious a 
trust?" said Mrs. Oakly, hoping this appeal might arrest 
her husband's views. 

" Why not ? She may be well enough for our pur- 
pose ; her kindness I can secure by money. As to any 
refinement, or education, it will never be of much impor- 
tance to Agatha. She will never be called upon, it is 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 169 

likely, for any display of accomplishments, poor thing — 
to eat, sleep, and read verses in the Bible, will fill up the 
measure of her days better than any thing else." 

This cutting and cruel remark aroused all the mother. 
Rising to her feet, she said, slowly and emphatically, 

" Alfred Oakly ! can you speak thus lightly of your 
own flesh and blood ! Now, shame upon you ! God has 
given us this unhappy child ; she is our own to love and 
protect. Were she the loveliest babe that ever fond moth- 
er circled to her heart, I could not love her more. I might 
be proud of such an one ; but love — oh, I could not so 
deeply, so tenderly !" 

" Well, there we differ, Mrs. Oakly ; it is precisely be- 
cause she is such a child that I am anxious to be rid of 
her," replied the heartless father. " Understand me, my 
dear, I wish no harm to poor Agatha; it is for her good, 
I assure you, that the change should be made. What 
answer, then, have you to my plan ?" 

" That I will never consent to it," she replied, firmly. 

" Very well — you will not. Then it must be done with- 
out your consent. I am fixed ; neither your refusal, or 
your tears, will avail any thing ; so you may as well 
make up your mind to yield, madam, without further ar- 
gument." So saying, Mr. Oakly turned coolly on his 
heel and left the room. 

Now wo to the poor wife — for well did she know her 
husband's unfaltering determination. If it was possible 
for a woman to be too amiable, Mrs. Oakly was so ; 
while her husband, far from appreciating such a charac- 
ter, ruled over her like some petty despot. Her only hope 
now rested upon the belief that the widow could never be 
11 



170 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

induced to give up one of her children for the unfortu- 
nate Agatha. 

*' 0, would she were ten times more repulsive ! — my 
poor child !" cried the unhappy mother, " / should 
still love her, but she would shrink from an object so 
unsightly." 



It was at the close of a chill, rainy day, near the mid- 
dle of September, that a handsome traveling-carriage 
drew up at the door of a small inn, in a retired country 
town. Such an occurrence was rare ; and no sooner, 
therefore, was it seen entering the long street of strag- 
gling houses, than it was followed by a noisy set of bare- 
footed urchins, yelping dogs, and idle loungers, so that 
by the time it reached the inn, a motley assemblage was 
formed around it. 

As the carriage stopped, the glass was let down ; a 
thin, sallow face looked sharply forth, and a voice not 
the most gentle, demanded, 

" Here, some of you — can you tell me where one 
Widow Oakly lives ?" 

The landlord, who by this time had reached the scene 
of wonder, imperatively thrust aside all other aspirants 
to the honor of answering the stranger, and himself 
began. 

" The Widow Oakly— ah, yes. The Widow Oakly 
you said, sir ?" 

" To be sure I did. I ask you to direct me to her 
residence." 

" Certainly, sir. Well, you see the widow lives in , 
that small house yonder, on the bank of the creek — that 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED, 171 

is, she has a room there ; an honest little woman, but 
poor — very poor !" 

"Drive on!" cried the gentleman, sternly, without 
deigning further notice of the loquacious landlord. 

The driver cracked his whip, and the spirited horses 
obeying the impulse, dashed through the crowd at the 
imminent risk of trampling some of the throng under 
their feet. 

" There, I told you," cried the landlord, " there was 
something uncommon about them Oaklys, poor as they 
are ; and now you see what a grand coach comes after 
them. Run down there, Jimmy, my boy, and find out 
what it means." 

And not only Jimmy, but a dozen others set off on full 
trot in the rear of the carriage. 

In the meantime the object of so much curiosity had 
reached the house pointed out as the residence of the 
widow ; and carefully mincing his steps across the 
muddy pathway, Mr. Oakly rapped loudly at the door 
with his gold-headed cane, for knocker there was none. 
After several repetitions of the same, each more vehement 
than the last, the door was finally opened by a middle- 
aged woman, whose red face, and scowling brows told 
she was in no very pleasant frame of mind. Around her 
head was tied an old black handkerchief, through which, 
in several places, her grizzly hair shot up like " quills 
upon the fretted porcupine." She was slip-shod, and 
stockingless — her dress drabbled and torn. 

"Well," she exclaimed, not at all daunted at sight 
either of the carriage or its owner, " what's all this rum- 
pus — what do you want, that you knock a body's house 
down about their ears ?" 



172 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

" Is there a Mrs. Oakly lives here ?" inquired the gen- 
tleman, involuntarily retreating a step or two. 

" "Well, if there is — what do you want ?" said the 
woman, surlily. 

'' That is my business," answered Mr. Oakly, looking 
daggers. " If there is such a woman here I must speak 
wuih her." 

" Then go round to the other door, and knock that 
down too," replied the waiman. " Eh, maybe you are 
one of her husband's relations. I've heard tell he had 
powerful rich ones." 

Mr. Oakly turned away w^ithout deigning reply to this 
half interrogatory. 

" £/i," she continued, her voice becoming shriller and 
shriller, " and a plaguy proud set you are. Til be bound. 
You can ride in your coach, can you, and let your brother, 
as maybe he was, die on straw. Ho-oo-t /" she shrieked, 
her face inflamed with anger, as she found her taunts 
unnoticed, " ho-oo-t away with you oti' my door-steps — 
did you ever hear of Dives and Lazarus ? Your gold 
wont keep your back from scorching, old Dives. Faith 
I should like to have the basting of you myself!" Say- 
ing which she boxed the ears of the nearest unlucky 
wight -who stood grinning with the rest at her eloquence, 
and then giving him a shake, which nearly sent his head 
off, she slammed the door, and retreated. 

Her last words were inaudible to the person they were 
intended for. Glad to escape from such a s'irago, he had 
hastily bent his steps around to the back entrance of the 
domicil. Here he knocked several times, but as no 
answer was given, he ventured at length to lift the latch, 
and enter. 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 173 

It was a low, dark room in which he found himself, 
little better than a cellar. I fancy it would have been 
impossible even for those who dwell upon the charms 
and romance of poverty, and who, with well-fed 
stomachs, in slippered ease, on Turkey carpets, descant 
so eloquently upon this theme, to have found aught 
charming here. The floor was broken and uneven ; two 
low windows, which could only boast of three whole 
panes between them, the rest being patched with paper, 
or their places supplied by rags, through which the rain 
had forced its way, and now trickled in long streams 
across the floor. There were two chairs, a low bedstead, 
miserably furnished, a pine table, and some few articles 
of crockery and cooking utensils of the poorest kind. 

Upon an old quilt, thrown down upon the floor in one 
corner of the'room, two little children, entwined in each 
other's arms, were sleeping. At this sight the knees of 
Mr. Oakly trembled, his teeth chattered, and for a mo- 
ment he leaned for support against the wall — for a voice 
seemed whispering in his ear, " Look, wretch! thy broth- 
er's children — this is thy woric .'" 

And perhaps it will be as well here as elsewhere, here, 
in the scene of that brother's death, to relate the events 
which led to so sad an end. 

In Mr. Alfred Oakly's summary of his brother's life, 
there was some truth, but not the whole truth. John 
was the favorite of his father ; for beside that his mind 
was of a much higher order than his brother's, his dispo- 
sition and deportment were also far more amiable and 
respectful. Mr. Oakly preferred not sending both his 
sons to college, so he very wisely resolved it should be 
the younger, as one whose talents would most honor the 



1T4 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

expense. This excited the envy and jealousy of Alfred, 
and from that moment he resolved to work his brother's 
undoing. It happened that at the same college — and in 
the same class with John Oakly, was a wild, dissipated 
fellow of the same name, who was continually getting 
into disgrace. Accident furnished Alfred with this clue, 
which he determined should lead to his desired wishes. 
By degrees whispers of misconduct began to reach the 
father's ears. Then came letters to corroborate these 
rumors, filling the heart of Mr. Oakly with sorrow. Let- 
ters, too, were continually being received, demanding 
money, which, if forwarded, it is unnecessary to say 
never reached its destination. Mr. Alfred took good care 
of that; for, of course, the letters his father received, 
purporting to be from his brother, originated in his own 
wicked mind, while those actually penned by John, as 
also his father's, were suppressed by the same crafty 
power. 

When Alfred first originated this scheme, it is proba- 
ble he had no idea its success would result in so much 
misery ; his desire was as much to be revenged on his 
father, for his partiality to his brother, as upon his 
brother for being the object of that partiality ; but when 
once he had entangled himself in the meshes of deceit, 
he could not break through without sure detection of his 
wickedness. The father and son met but once after the 
latter went to college. He was then received with cold- 
ness and reproaches. Conscious of his innocence, John 
was too proud to make any explanations, and left his 
father's roof in bitterness. Soon after Mr. Oakly went 
abroad, as wretched as his son, leaving Alfred, in sole 
charge of his business. The constitution of John was 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 175 

never strong; and no doubt the unmerited treatment of 
his father hastened the work of disease. He commenced 
the practice of the law, but in pleading his first cause, 
unfortunately ruptured a blood-vessel, and was borne 
from the court-room to his lodgings in apparently a 
dying state. Through the kindness and careful nursing 
of the lady with whom he boarded, he at length partially 
recovered ; or it may be that the beauty and gentleness 
of Louisa, her only daughter, contributed somewhat to 
his restoration. Certain it is, a mutual affection sprang 
up between them, and, though in no situation to marry, 
the death of her mother a few months after, by which 
Louisa was left alone and destitute in the world, brought 
the event about. 

And now love and poverty were henceforth to bear 
them company on their life-journey — for a final blow 
was put to any expectation which John might have 
indulged secretly of a reconciliation with his father, 
through the machinations of his brother. It seems the 
other John Oakly had, in the meanwhile, absconded with 
a girl of low character. Of this fact Alfred availed him- 
self, and communicated the same to his credulous father, 
who immediately wrote to his youngest son, that unless 
he renounced at once, and forever, the disgraceful con- 
nection, he would disinherit him. This letter, as refer- 
ring to his darling Louisa, the most amiable and lovely 
of wives, filled John with indignation, and anger. He 
answered the letter in terms which nothing but his feel- 
ings as a husband could excuse — and the rupture was 
complete. Mr. Oakly soon after returned home in mise- 
rable health, and died, cutting off John entirely in his 
will, and leaving the whole of his property to Alfred. 



176 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

This event the latter communicated to his brother, gen- 
erously enclosing a ffty dollar note, with the assurance 
that as his father had died so incensed against him, out 
of respect to that father's memory he must decline all 
further intercourse with him. 

AVhen sickness and poverty meet, the path of life's 
pilgrimage is hard. Too unwell to practice his profes- 
sion, John attempted writing, but this at best was preca- 
rious, beside that the exertion again brought on pain in 
the side, and difficulty of breathing. He had fine talents, 
and had health permitted, no doubt might have succeeded 
as a writer. Sometimes he would dictate, and his faith- 
ful Louisa commit his ideas to paper ; but this could not 
continue. New and precious cares were added, which 
required all her time, so that this resource was aban- 
doned. He soon grew so feeble as to be unable to leave 
his room. A kind physician recommended country-air, 
and through his assistance the unfortunate couple, with 
their two little ones, were enabled to reach a small 
country town. Here living would be cheaper, and hope 
whispered to Louisa that by industry and economy, she 
might support comfortably her dear husband and little 
ones. Poor girl! on offering herself as a seamstress, the 
good people looked at her vvrith surprise — they did all 
their own sewing. She oflered to teach painting or 
music, at very low rates ; but they laughed at her, and 
wondered what she thought they wanted of such foolish 
fashions. At last she was thankful, for her children's 
sake, to be employed even in the most menial offices, if 
thereby she might get them bread. Once did John 
Oakly address a letter to his brother, in which he stated 
his ill-health and destitution. It was never answered. 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 1T7 

Again, on his death-bed, did he give to the clergyman 
who attended his last moments his brother's address, re- 
questing him to write when he should be no more, and 
crave that assistance for his babes, which, while he lived, 
was refused to him. 

The result of this appeal is already known. 

The unfortunate widow met with little sympathy from 
her rough neighbors. Not that they meant unkindness 
or uncharitableness, but each one was too busy with 
their ow:n affairs to give more than a chance thought to 
a poor widow and a stranger. They were themselves 
industrious and frugal ; and it was difficult for her even 
to get a day's work from such economical, thrifty people. 

And hither now had the rich man come — and on what 
errand ? Not to sympathize — not to succor or relieve, 
but to prosecute his own selfish views, both cruel and 
unnatural. 

But to return. We left Mr. Alfred Oakly gazing 
upon his brother's sleeping babes. The opening of a 
door aroused him ; he turned, and the wan countenance 
of the widow met his view. She did not look to be more 
than three-and-twenty. She was tall, and her figure 
slender and delicate, but her small feet were bare, her 
garments coarse. On her sunken cheeks there was no 
trace of color, and the lines of suffering too plainly drawn 
around her beautiful mouth. Her dark eyes were large, 
but their brilliancy dimmed by tears of sorrow, and her 
long, raven hair — that splendid hair that had once been 
the admiration of all — was now combed carelessly back 
from her high brow, and concealed by a plain muslin 
cap. The man of the world was abashed, and the widow 
the first to break the silence. 



178 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

" I presume I speak to Mr. Alfred Oaldy," she said. 

The gentleman bowed, but had his life depended upon 
utterance, he could not have spoken. Their mother's 
voice, though low, at once aroused the sleeping inno- 
cents, and springing from their hard couch, they bounded 
to meet her. At sight of a stranger, however, the 
youngest, not two years old, hid her face in the folds of 
her mother's dress, but the elder looked up inquiringly 
into his face, and then raising herself on her little toes, 
and putting back her sunny ringlets, said, " Me will tiss 
you." 

Mr. Oakly did stoop to those little rosy lips, and even 
lifted the little creature for a moment in his arms ; but 
that was all — he placed her on the floor again, as cold, 
as unimpassioned as ever. 

This little scene overcame the fortitude of the mother ; 
folding both little ones to her bosom, she burst into tears, 
and for many moments wept bitterly. This gave Mr. 
Oakly time to recover himself. He would fain have 
believed the tears of the widow called forth more for 
effect than for real grief; but there was something too 
lofty and pure in her pale countenance to encourage such 
base thoughts. At length feeling himself ^bound to say 
something by way of consolation, in a husky, faltering 
voice, he began. The words " we must all die — sorry — 
death — unfortunate — in heaven — " being alone intelligi- 
ble. 

As if indignant with herself for having given way to 
her feelings in the presence of one so heartless, Mrs. 
Oakly instantly dried her tears, and with something of 
scorn on her features, listened to this lip-language — for 
well she knew the heart had little to do with it. 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 179 

" I have come here," he continued, " as the near rela- 
tive of your late husband, to remove you from this miser- 
able spot. You must leave this place, madam ; it is 
entirely too poor and wretched for you." 

" Wretched and poor as it is, on that bed your brother 
died !" said the widow, pointing as she spoke to the low, 
miserable bedstead. 

Mr. Oakly was evidently put down. After a moment's 
silence he added, 

" It is my intention, as my brother's widow, to treat 
you with every kindness." 

" Your kindness, sir, comes late," replied Mrs. Oakly, 
" and will prove but thankless. He whom it should 
have rescued from the grave, is now beyond your cruelty; 
and to me, therefore, your kindness, as you term it, is 
little else than cruel." 

The brow of Mr. Oakly contracted with anger, but the 
object he had in view was too important to be thwarted 
by a woman's reproaches ; so, dissembling his mortifica- 
tion, he continued. 

*' I wish you to remove from here at once to a pleasant 
town which I shall name to you ; and it is also my desire 
and intention to adopt your youngest child as my own." 

" Separate me from my children ! No, that you shall 
never do ! " cried the widow, pressing them to her 
bosom. 

" Do not be so hasty in your decision, my dear 
madam," said Mr. Oakly, blandly, "but listen to me 
with reason. This child shall be most tenderly and care- 
fully brought up. My wife will love her as her own ; 
and her education shall be the best which the city can 
give. You yourself shall not only live in comfort, but 



I 



180 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

also have ample means to educate your other daughter 
as you could wish. Nay, more; I do not ask you to 
give me your daughter without an equivalent. Now," 
continued he, drawing his chair still closer to Mrs. 
Oakly, and taking her hand, " P want you to listen to 
me — neither do I wish you to give me an answer to- 
night; you shall have time to reflect upon my proposi- 
tion, and to consider well the immense benefit which will 
result to yourself from conceding to my wishes, or, in 
case of refusal, the poverty and wretchedness which will 
still surround you and these poor babes, aggravated, per- 
haps, by the thought that you might have spared their 
tender frames, but would not." 

The countenance of the widow flushed with indigna- 
tion ; she spoke not, however, but turning her full dark 
eye upon him, prepared to hear what further this man 
had to say. 

" It has pleased the Almighty," he continued, " to 
give me one child, now nearly three years of age ; but 
this child he has blasted with the most hopeless deformi- 
ty. You have two beautiful children — then give me one, 
and receive to your maternal care my poor, blighted 
Agatha." 

" And are you 2i father ! and can you talk thus easily 
of severing the holy bond of parent and child !" inter- 
rupted Mrs. Oakly. "Have you not a wife — is there no 
mother to be consulted in your most unnatural scheme !" 

" Yes — an unhappy mother; but she has already con- 
sented. Aware that in perfect retirement her poor child 
can alone know happiness, she is willing to yield her up 
to your gentle treatment, and will in return bestow her 
love and tenderness upon your own babe. Reflect, you 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 181 

will still have one lovely child to console you, while the 
future welfare of both your children will be secured by 
the sacrifice ; furthermore, there will be the heartfelt 
pleasure of knowing that through your watchful care an 
unfortunate being is made happy." 

"Do you know aught of the pleasures of duty^ that 
you talk so feelingly ?" said the widow, scornfully. 

" Nay, reproach me not thus ; look at your two chil- 
dren, those little beings confided to your care — can you 
see their little frames wasted by hunger, or sinking 
through toil ; or, should you die, what then is there for 
them but a cold and bitter lot of poverty and death — or 
maybe a fate worse than death. You shudder; then 
why hesitate, when by simply yielding to my wishes 
you are all made comfortable and happy. I see you are 
moved. I have but one stipulation to make, should you 
consent, as I think you will ; it may alarm you at first, 
but upon reflection you will see its propriety. It is this 
— you are to promise solemnly never to claim your child, 
but to acknowledge poor Agatha to be yours, and never, 
on any account or any emergency, divulge this important 
secret. Do not answer me," said he, hastily, as he saw 
the widow was about to speak; " take time to consider 
my views — I will call at an early hour in the morning 
for your reply. Good night !" Then kissing the half- 
frightened children, the plausible brother of poor John 
Oakly softly closed the door, and once more entering his 
carriage, returned to the inn. 

It is difficult to conceive the pain and agitation with 
which this interview filled the breast of the poor widow. 
Doubts distracted her ; and decision either way filled her 
with dread. One moment she resolved to spurn the 



182 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

offered ransom from pov^erty, the next, as her eyes dwelt 
on her helpless little ones, doomed by such decision to 
years of toil and want, she wavered, and almost con- 
sented to part forever with her darling Louisa, if by the 
sacrifice their comfort might be secured. Then her 
mind wandered to the poor, cast-off Agatha, whom, per- 
haps, cruelty and harshness might destroy. She had 
well divined the father's selfishness, and should she 
refuse the charge, he might entrust her to other hands 
less faithful — for already she felt her heart warm toward 
the unfortunate. 

Unconscious of their mother's distress, the children had 
once more fallen asleep. Softly removing the little arm 
of the youngest from her neck, she carefully placed them 
on her humble bed, and then kneeling down beside them, 
she prayed that strength and resolution might be given 
her that she might decide justly and wisely. Mournfully 
the wind sighed around that dismal dwelling ; the rain 
beat against the shattered windows — but she heard it not, 
knew it not. Through that long, long night, without 
lamp or food, unto the dawning of another dismal day, 
the widow remained on her knees by the bed-side of her 
beloved children. Years seemed added unto her by the 
sufferings of that night. 

Her decision was made — made with an anguish which 
mocks at consolation. 

Blame her not, fond mother, as, surrounded by all the 
comforts of life, you fondly circle your own dear babes to 
your bosom, and think no power but death can separate 
you from them. Blame her not, that in poverty and 
destitution, in forlornness and widowhood, to save her 
poor infants from a lot so wretched, she at length with 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 183 

grief too deep for tears, decided to yield up forever to 
another^ her youngest born — her darling Louisa. 



To a pleasant seaport town, many miles distant from 
the scene of the preceding chapter, and still further 
removed from the residence of Mr. Oakly, our story now 
takes us. We must allow, too, for a flight of years, 
which shall be as noiseless as those circling so swiftly 
around the head of the young and happy. 

With the exception of one long street, consisting 
mostly of mechanics' shops, a few stores, a ropewalk, 
and a tavern, the dwellings, clustered here and there in 
a most picturesque and delightful manner. The land 
rising rather abruptly a few rods from the shore, and 
slightly undulating, gave to each little cottage a distinct 
and pretty appearance, each with its little garden-plot 
of bright-green vegetables and brilliant flowers, some 
half-hidden behind the huge brown trunks of forest- 
trees, others mantled with the vine or honey-suckle. 
To the south and west, the horizon rested upon the 
bosom of the majestic ocean ; northward towered hill on 
hill until the blue sky kissed their dark summits ; 
while to the east stretched a beautiful vista of finely 
cultivated fields, and glowing orchards, with the spires 
of distant villages proclaiming — God above all ! 

It was the hour of noon, on a bright June day. A 
band of happy, sportive children were just let loose 
from school, and with whoop and huzza, with careless 
laugh, and merry song, away bounded the gay young 
things, happy that the four brick walls of A B C-dom 
were behind them, yet now and then glancing back with 
a look of fondness to their school-mistress, as she slowly 



184 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFOEMED. 

crossed the play-ground to her own residence. In the 
path before her gayly frolicked a beautiful girl of per- 
haps ten summers, the very embodiment of health and 
innocence, skipping, dancing onward, light as any fairy, 
or with sunny smiles bounding back with a flower and a 
kiss for the child her mother was so tenderly assisting. 
This poor little creature was not only very lame, but 
was terribly hunchbacked, and otherwise deformed. Al- 
though really older than little Ruth Oakly, (for in the 
school-mistress the reader finds the widow,) she was not 
taller than most children at five. One little hand was 
clasped in her mother's, (she knew no other mother,) 
who, with the most tender care, guarded her steps, now 
and then, as the eyes of the child were lifted to hers, 
stooping down to kiss her, and encouraging her in the 
most endearing terms. The other hand held a wreath 
of flowers, which she had woven for her dear sister 
Ruth. 

As they entered the gate opening upon the nicely 
graveled walk leading up to the cottage-door, Ruth ran 
and brought a little arm-chair on rollers, softly cushioned, 
and placed it on the grass beneath the shadow of a large 
apple-tree, whose pendant branches, nestling down amid 
the sweet clover, thus formed a beautiful bower for the 
children's sports. 

" There, Gatty," cried Ruth, flinging herself down at 
her feet among the clover, " now let's play the story you 
were reading this morning. You shall be queen, and I 
will be the little girl that was never happy ; would it be 
wrong, Gatty, to play you were never happy — would it 
be telling a lie ; for you know, Gatty, dear, I am very, 
very happy — are n't you ? " 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 185 

"Yes — very happy," said Agatha, thoughtfully, "but, 
Ruth, I cannot be queen, you know — how I should look ! 
No, you must be queen ; and see, I have made this 
pretty wreath on purpose for you. I will be the ugly 
old fairy, and ma'rna shall be Leoline, that was never 
happy — for, Ruthy, do you know I think dear ma'ma is 
sometimes very miserable. I wonder what makes her 
cry so ; for every night when she kneels down by our 
bedside I can feel the hot tears on my cheek as she 
kisses me." 

" Ah ! and so can I — poor ma'ma ! " said Ruth, and 
both children remained sad and thoughtful, the arm of 
Ruth^-thrown across the lap of* her sister, whose little 
hand, still clasping the wreath, rested on Ruth's shoulder. 
At length Agatha spoke, but her voice was low and 
broken. 

" Ruth," said she, " maybe ma'ma weeps for me, be- 
cause — because — I am not more like z/ow." 

" How like me ? " said the little girl, raising her eyes 
to the sad face bent over her. 

" Why you know, Ruth, you are so straight and so 
pretty, and can walk so nicely, while I — I — " 

" You are a thousand times better than me, dear 
Gatty," cried Ruth, springing up and throwing both 
arms around her weeping sister — for it was almost the 
first time she had ever heard Agatha allude to her de- 
formity; "indeed you are a great deal prettier and 
better. Oh ! how many times I have heard dear ma'ma 
say she wished I was as good as you." 

" Ruth," said Agatha, laying her hand on her sister's 
arm, and looking earnestly in her face, " I atw a frightful 
looking child, am I not? " 
12 



186 THE "WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

" You, Agatha ! " exclaimed little Ruth, " yozt fright- 
ful ! " O, no ; don't everybody love you, Gatty, dear ?'* 

" Everybody is very kind to me," said the child, un- 
consciously making the distinction — " but then, Ruth, 
sometimes I hear people say, ' O, what an ugly little 
thing ! ' ' Did you ever see such a fright ? ' and then 
sometimes the children call me a spider, and say I have 
arms like an ape, and cry, ' Hunch-Bunch, what^s in 
your pack ? '" 

" 0, stop, dear Agatha!" said Ruth, tenderly kissing 
her, " don't talk so — pray don't ! it is only rude stranger 
children that say so ; it is because they don't know what 
a sweet, dear child you are." 

" I pray to God every night," continued Agatha, " to 
forgive them, for they don't know what it is to be lame, 
deformed, and helpless; and I pray God to make m% 
good and amiable, too, that J may forgive them." 

*' Don't cry, Gatty, dear," sobbed Ruth, and then both 
little heads sunk lovingly together in a paroxysm of tears. 

When Mrs. Oakly came to call the children to dinner, 
she was surprised to find them both weeping and sobbing 
bitterly. There was never any concealment from their 
mother; so Ruth, in a simple, earnest manner, related 
the conversation between Agatha and herself. Mrs. 
Oakly was grieved to find the mind of her hitherto 
happy child dwelling on a subject so hopelessly calam- 
itous. Raising the poor little girl in her arms, she 
fondly kissed her. 

" My darling," said she, " is it not better to be good 
and lovely in your heart, than to possess the most beau- 
tiful form, and yet be wicked, and have no love for God 
and his commandments ? My dear little girl, listen to 




THE WIDOW Al^D THE DEFORMED. 187 

me ; it was the will of the Almighty to strike you wiih 
lameness, and to render your frame less pleasing to the 
sight than that of other children ; but reflect how many 
blessings he has also granted you. Suppose you were 
blind; suppose you could never look upon the face of 
your dear little sister Ruth, or your ma'ma's ; could not 
see the beautiful flowers, nor the grass, nor yonder 
ocean, which you now so much love to look upon, or the 
beautiful blue sky above you ; or, Agatha, what if you 
were deprived of speech and hearing. Ah ! my child, 
do not sorrow any more, for you see how good God has 
been ; you must not let the speech of thoughtless chil- 
dren thus disturb you — will you promise me, Agatha ? " 

" I will try, dearest ma'ma — I must not promise, for 
I may be wicked again, and forget that God is so good," 
answered the child. 

Mr. Alfred Oakly had so far fulfilled the promises he 
made the widow as to remove her from the wretched 
spot where he had first sought an interview with her to 
the home she now occupied. He had purchased the 
cottage, which was pleasantly located, and presented her 
with the title deed. He had furnished it neatly, adding 
also a piano, and a small collection of books, to the 
other equipments. Half yearly she recived a stipulated 
amount of money, which, though small, would, with 
economy, have been sufficient for her support, had she 
chosen to avail herself of its uses. But this sum she 
considered sacred to Agatha. In case of her own death, 
she saw how utterly hopeless and dependent her situa- 
tion would be, and she nobly resolved not to encroach 
upon it any more than was absolutely necessary, for the 
first six months. She therefore exerted all her energies 



188 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

to support herself and the children, independent of this 
allowance. In this laudable endeavor she found the 
piano one great resource. She gave lessons in music, 
also in drawing and painting, and was engaged as 
teacher in the village school, in which capacity she was 
much beloved and respected both by parents and children. 
Thus years rolled on. Although she still grieved for 
her darling Louisa, and wept in secret those tears of 
which none but a mother may know the bitterness, still 
she was most fondly attached to the unfortunate little 
Agatha, while the affection subsisting between Ruth and 
the poor deformed was truly lovely to witness. There 
could not be a much greater contrast than in the looks of 
these two children, although their dispositions were in 
perfect harmony. Kuth possessed a rich olive complex- 
ion, with cheeks which might vie with June roses, they 
w^ere so bright and glowing; her eyes were black and 
sparkling ; and her raven hair closely cut to her beauti- 
fully rounded throat, was parted on top of her finely 
formed head, and waved over each temple in one rich, 
glossy curl. Her figure, tall for her age, was light and 
graceful. The complexion of Agatha, on the contrary, 
was dazzlingly fair, save where dashed by the small, 
violet veins ; her large, deep-hazel eyes possessed that 
peculiar brightness and intensity which usually desig- 
nates those who suflfer from like causes ; long ringlets of 
light-brown hair, fell around her almost to the ground as 
if to hide within their beautiful redundance the mis- 
shapen form of their little mistress. But it was the 
expression of her innocent face which called forth the 
pity and kindness of every one ; that look, so gentle, so 
confiding, as if pleading with every one to love her 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 189 

though she knew how hard it would be to take to their 
hearts a helpless deformed little object such as she was. 

Incapable of joining" in the sports of other children, 
Agatha devoted a great portion of her time to reading, of 
which she was passionately fond ; and possessing a 
retentive memory, she was better informed, perhaps, at 
ten years of age than most children at fourteen. She 
had a great taste for drawing and for music ; these Mrs, 
Oakly had assiduously cultivated, knowing what a 
source of comfort and amusement they would afford her, 
and also contribute to draw her from dwelling too much 
upon herself and her misfortunes, which would only 
tend to sour and destroy her happiness. 

From its proximity to the sea, and consequently ad- 
vantages of sea-bathing, the village in which Mrs. Oakly 
resided was, in the summer season, a frequent and 
favorite resort for invalids. 

There was a certain wealthy bachelor of the name of 
Sullivan, who, for two successive seasons, had made this 
his place of residence. Every one granted his claim to 
invalidism the first season, but when with robust frame, and 
fresh, healthy countenance, he appeared the second, people 
shook their heads, and talked of hypochondriacs. By and 
bye, it began to be whispered about that Mr. Sullivan 
was often seen coming from the little cottage of the 
Widow Oakly ; and at last it was asserted that he was 
soon to bear off their good school-mistress as his bride. 
This was all true. Mr. Sullivan was talented, agreeable, 
good looking, and rich ; one who, in his youthful days, 
need not fear the frown of any damsel, and who now, in 
the prime of manhood, might still have won the fairest. 
But the heart of the handsome bachelor seemed invul- 



190 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

nerable, for nearly forty years resisting all the charms 
of beauty. He came to the sea-shore to restore his head, 
and lost his heart. 



" When I said I should die a bachelor, 
I did not think I should live to be married," 



thought he, blushing like a school-girl at his ridiculous 
plight. 

The acquaintance between Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. 
Oakly commenced by means of the children. He one 
da}'- met them on the beach as they were gathering 
shells, and being always interested in children — a sure 
sign that his heart was good — he stopped to speak with 
them. The beauty and vivacity of Ruth charmed him, 
while her unfortunate little companion filled him with 
deep sympathy and pity. By and bye he found himself 
thinking less of the children and more of the mother, 
until in fact he made the astonishing discovery that he 
was in love. 

Mrs. Oakly, now in her thirty-eighth year, had pre- 
served her beauty through all the troubles and vicissi- 
tudes of her life. There are some forms and faces we 
see, upon which time appears unwilling to lay his 
withering hand — and Mrs. Oakl^^ was one of these. 
The rose yet lingered on her cheek ; her eyes were still 
soft and brilliant ; her mouth had not lost its freshness, 
nor her teeth their pearly hue, while the dark hair 
folded over her fine brow was as thick and glossy as in 
the days of girlhood. 

You may be sure the bachelor was not for any long 
delay in the matter — that " Happy's the wooing that's 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 191 

not long a doing," was precisely his idea — so he made 
proposals at once, and was accepted. 

The evening previous to her marriage, Mrs. Oakly 
addressed a' letter to Mr. Alfred Oakly, informing him of 
the event, though she entered into no particulars, not 
even giving the name of her intended husband. All the 
request she made was, that he would continue to place 
the same amount of money which he had previously 
forwarded to her, in some safe deposit, for the benefit of 
Agatha; that should she survive those whose happiness 
it was now to do for her, she might not be entirely 
thrown upon the cold charity of the world. Not one 
word did she breathe of her yearning for her own 
precious Louisa ; she felt he would not understand her 
if she did, so she coldly bade him farewell. 

The marriage was solemnized in the widow's own 
little parlor; after which, amid the tears and blessings of 
the villagers, Mrs. Sullivan departed with her happy 
husband for his beautiful residence near Lake George. 



PART II. 

We will now return to Mr. Alfred Oakly, and learn how 
the world in the interim has fared with him. Pros- 
perity at the helm, his richly freighted vessels careered 
over the wide ocean, no devastating fires destroyed 
his dwellings, no whirlwinds uprooted his forests, no 
blight or mildew stole over his fields to nip the golden 
harvest, and yet, with all this, there was many a beggar 
who gleaned the refuse from his kitchen, who knew 
more of happiness than did this cold, selfish man. In 
the first place his wife had never recovered from the 



192 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

shock to her affections in being forced to yield up her 
unfortunate child — not only her health but her temper 
suffered severely. Toward her husband in particular this 
change seemed pointed, and as much as she had loved 
him previously her coldness Mras now proportionate. 
Unhappily, too, for Louisa, the innocent cause of this 
rupture, it extended itself even to her, and thus child- 
hood, that rainbow-tinted period of life was to her 
clouded and joyless. Her father, stern and morose, 
secluding her from playmates of her own age — her 
mother seldom greeting her with a word of affection or a 
smile of encouragement — her caresses met by both with 
coldness, and all the winning graces of childhood frowned 
down with disfavor. Her education, however, went on 
as though her frame were formed of iron. There was a 
stiff governess, whose cold gray eye was ever on her, to 
watch that she did not loll in sitting or stoop in walking 
— that her toes turned out and her elbows turned in — 
that she neither spoiled her mouth by laughing (little 
danger !) nor her eyes by crying. Then came the music? 
master with commands for six hours daily practice for 
those little fingers — and the dancing-master, saying 
" Ma^amselle, you must be very gay — you cannot never 
learn de dance ven you do look so vat you call fat-i- 
gued." Then came the drawing-master, and the pro- 
fessor of languages ; nor were these all to which her 
mind was tasked, for besides, were those branches which 
her governess professed to teach — her governess, Miss 
Pinchem, with whom in comparison Miss Blimber of 
Blimber Hall would have shrunk into insignificance ! 

Poor little Louisa ! 

She would sometimes wonder if the little children she 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 193 

read of in the Bible had to learn all such things to make 
them good — for Miss Pinchem was great on goodness — 
always beginning and ending her exhortations with, 
" Now, Miss Louisa, you must be good, and not raise 
eyes from your book " — " You must play that tune with 
more scientific grace, Miss 'Louisa, or you will not be 
good " — " You must turn out your toes if you want to be 
good^'' — "You will never be good if you don't pro- 
nounce better " — in short there was a great deal of good- 
ness on Miss Pinchem's wiry tongue, let people say 
what they would, and though Louisa wondered what 
made Miss Pinchem good ! " 

No sooner had Mr. Oakly accomplished his object in 
ridding his sight of the poor deformed, than he would 
fain have held himself excused from all obligation to the 
widow — but he dared not act out his wishes, fearful in 
such case that she would claim her own, and thus betray 
his disgraceful secret. When he received Mrs. Oakly's 
letter informing him of her intended marriage, his ap- 
prehensions were anew awakened. Could it be possible 
she would keep the secret from her husband ? Doubt- 
less she V70uld scorn the intimation that so unsightly a 
child as Agatha was her own offspring, and thus to 
preserve her maternal pride forfeit her word ! ! a 
thorny pillow was that Mr. Oakly nightly pressed ! 
How often in his dreams did the pale corse of his injured 
brother rise up before him, and ever in its fleshless arms 
it bore the shrunken form of Agatha ! But as month 
after month rolled on, swelling finally to years, and 
hearing nothing further from the late Mrs. Oakly, he 
felt more at ease, so much so that he entirely forgot her 



194 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFOKMED. 

request relative to tlie future advantage of his discarded 
child ! an oversight very natural to such a man ! 

Louisa reached her seventeenth year, and as the bud 
gave promise so proved the flower, beautiful indeed and 
lovely. Mr. Oakly was really proud of this ! He 
mentally contrasted her light elegant figure with the 
probable appearance of Agatha, and congratulated him- 
self that he had not to bear about the shame of acknowl- 
edging the latter ! Still, he did not love Louisa — strange 
that he almost hated her for possessing those very attri- 
butes of loveliness for which he had preferred her above 
his own oti'spring ! 

When Louisa emerged from the seclusion of the 
school-room to the brilliant circles of fashion, she was 
caressed, flattered, adored. Wealth and beauty tripping 
hand in hand seldom fail to win favor, and brought a 
throng of admirers to the feet of the heiress, who, how- 
ever, did not seem easily moved ; and many were the 
suitors to her favor who met with a kind but firm refusal. 
But, beware, Louisa, your aflections will be held by 
your tyrant father just as much enslaved as your person ; 
and now, wo to you, should they centre where he does 
not approve. 



Moonlight, golden, twinkling stars, fragrant zephyrs, 
sweet from the lip of the lily, soft music from tinkling 
leaves, a murmur from the rippling river, and through the 
winding shrubbery, slowly along the path tesselated by the 
moonbeams, which glist through the leafy curtain, Louisa 
is straying — but not alone. A youth is by her side, one 
whose arm her own encircles, who clasps her willing hand 
in his ; one whose whispers are of love, and to whom her 



THE WIDOW AND TEE DEFORMED. 195 

own voice, gentle and low, speaks of hope and happiness 
in return. 

Ah ! foolish, foolish Louisa ! what are you thinking 
of? Only a poor painter — and you in love ! True, he 
has talent, worth, grace, refinement, but — no money ! 
And you, unfortunate youth, why did you love this 
beautiful maiden. Know you not that man of heartless- 
ness and pride, her father, would gladly crush you to the 
earth for lifting your eyes heavenward to his daughter ; 
that he would sooner buy her winding-sheet than that 
she should don her wedding-robe for thee! And yet, 
even now, closer and closer are you both riveting the 
chain, drawing heart to heart, which no hand but death 
can loose. 

It was the second summer after Louisa's initiation 
into the gay world that the Oakly family were once 
more assembled at Oak Villa, their annual resort during 
the warm months of July and August. With no taste 
for reading, a mind not attuned for meditation, and the 
querulousness of an ungraceful old age gradually steal- 
ing upon him, Mr. Oakly found the time drag most 
wearily on amid those quiet groves. In this extremity 
an idea suddenly flashed across his brain, which he 
eagerly caught at, as it promised to relieve somewhat of 
that tedious vacuum between those hours when such a 
man and happiness may alone be said to look each other 
in the face : viz., the hour of meals — and this was to 
summon an artist to the villa, for the purpose of de- 
corating the walls of the saloon with the portaits of its 
inmates. He had not thought of it before, but, quite 
luckily, it now occurred to him that he already had the 
address of a young artist in his pocket, for whom some 



196 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

friend of struggling genius had solicited patronage. 
Now he could kill two birds with one stone, as it were, 
secure the plaudits of the world by taking the artist by 
the hand in so flattering a manner, and at the same lime 
pull away the drag from the wheels of time. He looked 
at the card — " Walter Everison," — and to Walter E vert- 
son did he immediately address a letter, requesting his 
presence at the villa. 

He came — a fine, handsome youth of three-and-twenty, 
with an eye like an eagle, and hair dark as a starless 
night — a dangerous companion, we must allow, for the 
gentle Louisa. He was met with condescending af- 
fability made most af^parent by the master of the house, 
and by Mrs. Oakly, who seldom manifested much in- 
terest in any thing, with cool indifference. No wonder, 
then, that he turned with a thrill of pleasure tingling his 
heart-strings, to the gentle Louisa, whose manners, at 
once so courteous and refined, offered so agreeable a 
contrast. 

There are some, perhaps, whose hearts have never yet. 
felt the power of love, who rail about love at first sight 
as a theory too ridiculous to dwell upon — a chimera only 
originating in the heads of romantic school-girls and 
beardless shop-boys ; very well, let them have it so ; I 
only assert that both Louisa and the artist, at that first 
interview, were favorably impressed ; and that a brief 
intercourse under the same roof cemented their young 
hearts with all the strength of a first and truthful affec- 
tion. Love (himself a sly artist) traced each on the 
other's heart in fadeless tints. Sincere and unselfish 
was the love which Walter Evertson had conceived for 
Louisa ; a love which he intended to bury within his 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 197 

own throbbing breast — for he dared not flatter himself 
that it would be returned — she, the heiress of thousands 
— he, the poor, unfriended artist. Vain resolve ! It 
was the evening with which this chapter commences, 
that, in an unguarded moment, he had revealed to her his 
love, and received the blest assurance of her own in 
return. But their cup of joy was even then embittered 
by the consciousness that her father, in his cold, selfish 
nature, would tear their hearts asunder, even though he 
snapped their life-strings. 

In the meantime the business which had brought him 
to the villa was being accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. 
Oakly saw themselves to the life on canvas, and now it 
only remained to consummate his work by portraying 
the features of Louisa. Delightful, yet difficult task ! 
Mrs. Oakly had so far aroused herself from her usual 
lethargy, as to insist that the figure of Louisa herself 
should be but secondary in the picture about to be ex- 
ecuted. She was tired, she said, of those stiff, prim 
figures on sombre-tinted ground, looking out from gilded 
frames with eye-balls ever coldly glaring upon one, and 
would have a large painting of rare design and skill — 
woods, fountains, birds, and flowers, to relieve the form 
and face of Louisa from this dull sameness. Various 
were the sketches brought forward for her approval ; and 
whole days, which Evertson wished might never end, 
were spent in vain endeavors to settle upon some one of 
them for the purpose. Accident, however, at length 
furnished the desired tableau — although it would be 
doing injustice to Evertson to imply that he lacked 
talent or originality — fine as were his sketches, they 



198 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

failed to please Mrs. Oakly, because — she would not be 
pleased. 

One morning Louisa strolled out alone, and uncon- 
sciously pursued her ramble until she reached a beautiful 
meadow fringed with fine old trees, whose branches bent 
down to meet their dark, leafy shadows in the bright 
waters of the Susquehanna. Birds were singing merrily, 
butterflies sported their golden wings, and the grass- 
hopper chirped, blithely leaping through the tall grass. 
Here and there, where the rays of the sun had not yet 
penetrated, were the gossamers of elfin broidery — mantles 
dropped by fairies on their merry rounds in the check- 
ered moonlight beneath those old trees ; there was a drop 
of bright nectar, too, left in the cup of the wild-flower, 
and the large, red clover-tops were sparkling with dew- 
gems. I cannot assert that Louisa saw all the beauties 
of this fine morning ; for, absorbed in pleasing thoughts, 
upon which we will not intrude, satisfied as we ought to 
be that the artist occupied a full share, she seated herself 
beneath one of those shadowing trees, and resting her 
chin within the palm of her little hand, most likely, I am 
sorry to say, heard neither the warble of the birds, the 
cheerful chirping insect, or saw the bright glancing river, 
with the little boat which was just then dancing over its 
silver ripples. 

The sound of voices approaching in the opposite direc- 
tion suddenly broke in upon her trance, and she then, 
for the first time reflected that she had passed the bound- 
aries of her father's land. The estate adjoining had 
lately been purchased by a wealthy Englishman, it was 
said. For many weeks repairs had been going on in the 
old mansion, which for several years had been tenant- 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 199 

less ; and the family were daily expected to arrive. 
That they had now done so was Louisa's conclusion. 
The voices drew nearer ; but, trusting to the thick foliage 
for concealment, she remained perfectly still ; when ap- 
parently within but a few paces of her the party stopped. 

" What a lovely view !" exclaimed a soft female voice. 
" I wish ma'ma had not turned back, she would have 
been so delighted." 

" It is truly fine," was the reply, in a masculine tone ; 
"it is even more beautiful than the view from the lawn 
we so much admired last evening ; what if you were to 
sketch it." 

" If I had only brought my crayons, I would do so 
now. How lovely it is !" answered the lady. 

" If you have strength for it after your long walk," 
was the reply, " I will return for your portfolio ; here is 
a nice shady seat for you — I will soon be back, but do 
not ramble away from this spot." 

Louisa heard the retreating footsteps, and was about to 
make good her own, when a beautiful Scotch air, very 
sweetly warbled, arrested her attention. The song 
ceased abrubily, giving place to a scream so loud and 
shrill, as blanched the cheek of Louisa with the hue of 
death. She sprang to her feet, and panting with terror, 
emerged from her shelter into the open meadow just as 
the scream was again repeated. She now almost breath- 
lessly looked around to detect the cause of alarm. In a 
moment she saw it all. A noble stag, having probably 
leaped the park-palings, came bounding swiftly across 
the meadow directly toward the spot where Louisa was 
now standing, no doubt with the intention of slaking his 
thirst at the tempting stream. The terrors of Louisa 



200 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

were at once allayed ; and she now hastened to the spot 
whence the screams issued, to soothe, if possible, the 
fears of the unknown. 

Trembling with fright, and clinging to a tree for sup- 
port, was a female, dwarf-like in stature, and deformed 
in shape. Her countenance was deadly pale, and her 
eye-balls, almost fixed with terror, were strained upon 
the animal, as he came leaping onward. Ere Louisa 
could speak he had approached within a few paces, and 
as if now first aware of their presence, he suddenly 
halted, arched his beautiful, glossy neck, and bending his 
antlered head, stood at bay. Seeing how utterly helpless 
was the poor unknown, Louisa sprung forward, and tell- 
ing her not to be alarmed, quickly placed herself before 
her ; but the noble stag, as if disdaining to war with 
women, after gazing upon them a few seconds with his 
wild eyes, suddenly turned, and tossing his head proudly, 
trotted off in another direction. 

At that moment how rejoiced was Louisa to see her 
lover rapidly approaching, — for the stranger had already 
fainted. 

" Water ! water !" she cried, " quick, or she will die !" 

Without speaking, Evertson rushed to the river, and 
filling his hat with its cooling waters, was in a second at 
her side. 

" Poor girl ! she will die with terror, I fear. What 
fine features, and what beautiful hair !" said Louisa, as 
she swept back the long tresses from her neck and brow, 
purer than alabaster. 

In a few moments the object of their solicitude opened 
her eyes. She could not speak, but pressing the hand of 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 201 

Louisa to her lips, pointed toward a mansion just dis- 
cernible through a dense shrubbery at some distance. 

" Shall I bear you home ?" inquired Evertson. 

The stranger looked her thanks ; and lifting her in 
his arms as tenderly as if she were a babe, he proceeded 
with his almost lifeless burthen in the direction pointed 
out. 

Thus met, for the first time, the discarded Agatha and 
the innocent usurper of her rights. 

The fancy of Walter Evertson seized at once upon a 
scene so interesting as the one he had just witnessed. 
No sooner did he part with Louisa at the door of the 
saloon, than, hastening to his studio, he began sketching 
the outlines of his truthful conceptions. Rapidly did he 
hasten on his own misery — blissfully unconscious the 
while of the sad termination of his labors. Never had 
he wrought so well and so rapidly — not a stroke but told. 
There was the beautiful meadow, with its brave old trees, 
and the river gleaming through their branches ; the fine 
stag, his antlered front bent toward the two females ,* the 
graceful form of Louisa standing beneath the old oak, 
shielding the terrified stranger, one arm thrown around 
her, the other slightly raised as if motioning the animal 
away. Love surely guided his hand ; for, without a 
sitting, the artist had transferred from his heart to the 
canvas the gentle features of Louisa with an accuracy 
undisputable. Strikingly, too, had he delineated the 
form and face of the deformed — her long, waving tresses 
— her pale countenance — her large eyes fixe4 in terror 
upon the stag, and her small, mis-shapen figure. Some- 
thing, too, had he caught, even in that short interview, 
of the features of Agatha. He could not, however, 
13 



202 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

proceed in his task until it had received the approbation 
of the master and mistress of the mansion. He had 
purposely requested Louisa to be silent respecting the 
morning's adventure, that he might, by surprise, obtain 
the mastery over the whims of Mrs. Oakly, so hard to 
be gratified. They were now respectfully invited to the 
picture-room, together with Louisa, to pass judgment 
upon his (to him) beautiful sketch. 

To depict the scene which followed the withdrawal of 
the curtain he had placed before it would be impossible. 
Mrs. Oakly gave one look, and with a dreadful shriek, 
exclaiming, " 3Iy child .'" fell senseless to the floor. Mr. 
Oakly, foaming with rage, his face livid and distorted, 
rushed upon the astonished artist, and in a voice choked 
with passion, cried, 

" Out of my house, villain ! Ha ! do you beard me 
thus ! Who are you, that have thus stolen my secret, 
and dare to show me that picture — dare to place that 
hateful image before me ? Out of my house, I say, ere 
I am tempted to commit a worse crime !" 

Astonished, bewildered, confounded, Evertsori for a 
moment could not speak, nor would the enraged man 
hear him when he did. In vain Louisa, while striving 
to restore animation to her mother, interceded, explained, 
expostulated — alas ! her tears and agitation only betray- 
ing to her father a new source of anger. Seizing her by 
the arm, and bidding her seek her chamber, he thrust 
her from the room, and then turning once more to the 
artist, as h© raised the still inanimate form of his wife, 

" I give you half an hour to make your arrangement^ 
for leaving my roof — beware how you exceed that time ; 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 203 

when you are ready, you will find the sum due you in 
this cursed room — begone, sir !" 

Without any attempt to see poor Louisa again, and 
trusting he might be able to communicate with her in a 
few days, Walter Evertson left the villa. 

When Mr. Oakly next entered the painting-room the 
money of the artist was still there — but the fatal picture 
had disappeared. 

A few years after his marriage, Mr. Sullivan took his 
family to Europe, where they remained until within a 
few months previous to the singular meeting of Louisa 
and Agatha. 

In a beautiful cottage on the borders of Loch Katrine, 
their lives had been one uninterrupted scene of happi- 
ness — always excepting the yearning of a mother's heart 
for her lost child. The education of Ruth and Agatha 
had formed their chief care, and was such as a kind- 
hearted, intelligent man like Mr. Sullivan was proud to 
give them, sparing neither money nor precept, and aided, 
too, by the superior judgment and example of their ex- 
eellent mother. Ruth had grown up lovely and amiable, 
and at the time the family returned to America, was 
affianced to a fine young Scotchman. Poor Agatha had 
become even more unsightly in figure, yet retained all 
the simplicity and amiableness of her childhood. What- 
ever may have been her own private feelings upon her 
unfortunate deformity, it was rare, indeed, that she ever 
made allusion to it. When she did, it was with meek- 
ness and resignation to her Maker's will ; for early in 
life had Agatha given herself to Him whose love is more 
precious than all earthly advantages. She seldom mixed 



20-i THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

with society, yet when she did, even strangers, after a 
slight acquaintance, thought no more of her unshapeli- 
ness. The sweet expression of her countenance inter- 
ested, her intelligence charmed them. 

When Mrs. Sullivan took possession of her new resi- 
dence on the Susquehanna, little did she dream how 
short the distance which separated her from her youngest 
born ; and when Agatha related the fright she had 
received during her morning ramble, and spoke with 
such enthusiasm of the beautiful girl who had so nobly 
come to her assistance, how little did she think whose 
arms had encircled the trembling Agatha, whose voice it 
was had tried to soothe her fears. 

Mr. Sullivan avowed his determination of calling im- 
mediately upon their neighbors to express his thanks to 
the fair maid, and the gallant young gentleman who had 
so opportunely come to the assistance of dear Agatha, 
his pet and favorite. He did so the next day, but he 
was too late — the house was deserted. 

Agatha evinced much regret at the circumstance, 

" How sorry I am !" said she ; " 0, I do hope we 
may hereafter meet again ; the countenance of that 
charming girl haunts me like a dream — so lovely, and 
somehow so familiar to me — a stranger, and yet not a 
stranger. Sometimes, ma'ma when you look at me as 
you do now, I almost fancy her eyes are on me ; and 
then again, only for being a blonde, it appears to me she 
greatly resembled dear Kuth." 

Mrs. Sullivan changed color, and evidently much 
agitated, she inquired of her husband if he knew the 
name of their late neighbor. 

" I do not," was his reply, " and our servants are as 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 205 

ignorant as ourselves. Ah ! here comes an honest lad 
with berries to sell — and a fine tempting load, too. I 
will ask him while I purchase the fruit." 

As the boy measured out the berries, Mr. Sullivan 
said, 

" Well, my son, can you tell me who lives in the fine 
old stone house just at the bend of the river ?" 

" Oakly, sir — Squire Oakly we call him here." 

" Quick, quick, father, ma'ma is fainting !" screamed 
Ruth, springing to her side. 

For a moment all was alarm and confusion ; but at 
length Mrs. Sullivan slowly opening her eyes desired to 
be led to her chamber. 

" I will lie down a few moments — I shall soon be 
better ; it is nothing — nothing," she answered to their 
affectionate solicitude. 

When alone, then did she give way to her joy. What 
happiness ! her dear Louisa — her long lost was found. 
She was good, too, and lovely ; her kindness to a stranger 
proved the former, and the assertions of the grateful 
Agatha the latter. She might now hope by some fortu- 
nate chance to see her — they might now meet. 0, how 
could she keep down her throbbing heart ; how would 
she be able to refrain from clasping her to her bosom, 
and avowing herself her mother. When she thought 
she had recovered sufficient composure, she again joined 
the family ; but it was almost as soon dissipated by the 
conversation which followed her entrance into the sitting 
room. 

" My dear," said Mr. Sullivan, " do you know these 
foolish girls are for making out a relationship between 
themselves and our runaway neighbors — claiming a 



206 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

courtship, even if several degrees removed, to the fair 
heroine of Agatha's story — can it be so, think you ?" 

*' This Mr. Oakly may possibly have been some con- 
nection of their father's," faltered Mrs. Sullivan. 

" Had papa no brothers ?" said Agatha. 

" Yes, one ; but some unhappy family disagreement, 
however, prevented any intercourse. They were as 
strangers to each other." 

" What if this Mr. Oakly should prove our uncle. 
Had he any family, ma'ma ?" asked Ruth. 

" I believe — one — one daughter," was the almost in- 
audible reply. 

" Do not say any more," whispered Agatha to her 
sister, " don't you see how it distresses ma'ma ?" 

Mr. Sullivan had observed the same thing, and the 
subject was dropped. 

In a few days the papers announced among the list of 
passengers sailed for Havre, the name of Mr. Alfred 
Oakly, lady and daughter. 

Another flight of years, and behold what changes in 
the fortunes of Mr. Oakly. Adversity had at last seized 
its victim, gorging to the full its revenge for those years 
when its existence had been but as a phantom to the 
wealthy merchant; he now felt its iron clutches to be 
something more tangible than shadows. The sea had 
swallowed his vessels ; flames had greedily swept over 
his warehouses; blight had devastated his fields; failures 
of firms he considered as good as the bank — nay, even 
the bank itself failed ; and in the short space of one year,> 
Mr. Oakly found himself stripped of all save a mere 
pittance, which, with the most scrupulous economy, 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 207 

could hardly support his family. The teachings of ad- 
versity upon the cold, selfish heart, are sometimes blessed 
with happy fruits. And thus it proved with Mr. Oakly. 

True, the change was not instantaneous ; he lost not 
his property to-day, to become a Christian, a philosopher 
tomorrow. But as a drop of water will in time wear 
away the hardest rock, so, little by little, were the flinty 
feelings of his heart softened and purified. The wicked 
and selfish deeds of his past life arose up before him, 
each with its own accusing tongue. That fortune, for 
which he had risked his soul, had crumbled away, but 
these stood out plain and distinct, only to be effaced 
through the mercies of One whose most sacred obliga- 
tions he had violated. 

Mrs. Oakly met this reverse of fortune humbly and 
uncomplainingly. Happily, she was ignorant of the sin 
of her husband, in having, like a second Cain, destroyed 
his brother. Yet she felt that for another crime — the 
disowning of his own offspring — the punishment was 
just. Her own conscience, too, reproached her for the 
unjust feelings in which she had indulged toward the 
innocent Louisa ; and now, almost for the first time in 
her life, she treated her as a daughter. 

Kind, gentle, affectionate Louisa ! only that she saw 
her parents deprived of many comforts which would 
have soothed their declining years, she would have 
rejoiced in a change of fortune which had brought with 
it their love. In her heart there was a secret sorrow 
which she might breathe to none — it was her love for 
Walter Evertson. Never, since that fatal day, had she 
seen or heard again from him ; but that he was faithful, 
and vvould be faithful unto death, her trusting heart 



208 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

assured her. "When ease and affluence surrounded her, 
this sudden separation from her lover, and under such 
afflicting and inexplicable circumstances, had seemed to 
paralyze her energies. Books, music, travel, all failed 
to excite more than mechanical attention : but now, in 
the sorrows of her parents, she lost the selfishness of her 
own, and strove in every way to comfort them. 

What now had become of the once proud merchant. 
His name was no longer heard on 'change, unless coupled 
with a creditor's anathema ; and summer friends, like 
the sun on a rainy day, were behind the cloud. 



It was a cold, cheerless day in December ; one of those 
days when one hugs close to the fire-side, and when even 
a glance at the dull sombrous out-of-door atmosphere 
makes, or ought to make, one thankful for the blessings 
of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a friend, 
or the solace of a book. With all these comforts com- 
bined, the family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the 
breakfast parlor. There was the grate, heaped to the 
topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing anthracite ; 
the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant 
plants of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various 
little songsters, whose merry notes breathed of spring- 
time and shady groves ; and the face of grim winter shut 
out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery. 

The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and 
the breakfast things removed, with the exception of the 
beautiful cofiee-set of Sevre's china, which Mrs. Sullivan 
was so old-fashioned as to take charge of herself, in pre- 
ference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head 
of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 209 

engaged in this domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. 
Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had just gone into the 
study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had taken 
the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side 
of her mother, was reading the news of the day — now to 
herself, or, as she found a paragraph of peculiar interest, 
aloud for the general entertainment. Agatha was re- 
clining upon the sofa, and nestling by her side was a 
beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through 
the long, sunny curls of " Aunt Gatty," his merry little 
shouts, and infantile prattle, quite overpowering raa'ma's 
news. 

" Why what can this mean ? " suddenly exclaimed 
Ruth ; " do hear this ma'ma. ' If the former widow of 
Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband un- 
known) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, 
they are requested to call at No. 18 street, and in- 
quire for A. 0., or to forward a note to the same address, 
stating where they may be found.' What can it mean, 
ma'ma?" 

Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; 
she trembled in every limb, and her countenance was 
deadly pale. 

" Ruth, dearest," said she, " ring the bell, and order 
the carriage immediately to the door." 

" Ma'ma, you surely will not go out alone," said Ruth. 

" Yes, alone ! do not disturb your father," answered 
Mrs. Sullivan; " alone must I meet this trial. My dear 
girls," she continued, " ask me no questions. God knows 
what I am about to learn, whether tidings of joy or sor- 
row; but I trust all may be explained when I return." 

In a few moments the carriage was at the door, and 



210 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

tenderly embracing Ruth and Agatha, she departed upon 
her anxious errand. 

After passing through so many streets that it seemed 
they must have nearly cleared the city, the carriage 
turned into a narrow street, or rather lane, and stopped 
at No. 18, a small two story wooden building. Mrs. 
Sullivan alighted and rang the bell. The door was 
opened by a little servant-girl, to whom she handed a 
card, on which she had written with a trembling hand, 
" A person wishes to speak with A. O." 

In a few moments the girl returned and ushered her up 
stairs into a small parlor. Her fortitude now nearly for- 
sook her, and it was with difficulty she could support 
herself to a chair. As soon as she could command her- 
self, she looked around to see if she could detect aught 
which might speak to her of her child. Upon the table 
on which she leaned were books. She took up one, and 
turned to the title-page ; in a pretty Italian hand was 
traced " Louisa Oakly." Several beautiful drawings 
also attracted her eye — they, too, bore the name of 
" Louisa Oakly." But before she had time to indulge 
in the blissful hopes this caused her, the door opened, and 
Mr. Oakly, with an agitation nearly equal to her own, 
entered the room. 

Many years had flown since they met, and time on 
both had laid his withering hand ; but while Mrs. Sulli- 
van presented all the beautiful traits of a peaceful, happy 
decline into the vale of years, the countenance of Mr. 
Oakly was furrowed and haggard with remorse, and all 
those evil passions which had formerly ruled his reason. 
Quickly advancing, he extended his hand, and attempted 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 211 

to speak, but emotion checked all utterance, while the big" 
tears slowly rolled down his cheek. 

" 0, speak — speak ! tell me — Louisa ! " cried Mrs. Sul- 
livan, alarmed at his agitation. 

" Compose yourself," replied Mr. Oakly, '* Louisa is 
well. I have sought this interview, that I may make all 
the reparation now left me for my injustice and cruelty. 
You see before you, madam, a miserable man, haunted 
by remorse, and vain regrets for past misdeeds. From 
my once proud and lofty standing," he continued, glanc- 
ing around the apartment, " I am reduced to this. Yet 
think not I repine for the loss of riches. No ! were mil- 
lions now at my command, I would barter all for a clear, 
unaccusing conscience. Wealth, based on fraud, on un- 
charitableness, must sooner or later come to ruin. I once 
despised poverty, and cherished a haughty spirit toward 
those I arrogantly deemed my inferiors. Have I not my 
reward ? " 

" But my child — tell me of my child ! " interrupted 
Mrs. Sullivan, scarce heeding his remarks, " where is 
she ? May I not see her ? " 

" Bear with me a little while longer," said Mr. Oakly, 
" in half an hour she shall be yours forever ! " 

" My God, I thank thee ! " exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, 
bursting into tears of joy. 

" Yes, 1 yield her to your arms," continued Mr. Oakly, 
" the loveliest daughter that ever blessed a mother, and 
relieve you forever from the charge of an unfortunate, to 
whom my conduct has been both brutal and unnatural. 
Listen to me, madam, for a few moments." 

He then as briefly as possible made confession of the 
base part he had acted toward his brother, and the means 



212 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 

employed to ruin him with his father ; the selfish motives 
which led to the exchange of the children ; related the in- 
cident of the picture, and consequent removal from Oak 
Villa — for well did he divine who the deformed was. He 
then spoke of Louisa ; of her uniform loveliness of char- 
acter, and the gentleness with which she had borne, as he 
acknowledged, his oft repeated unkindness. 

" She knows all," said he in conclusion, " and waits 
even now to receive a mother's embrace. I will send 
her to you, and may her tears and caresses plead my for- 
giveness ! " so saying, Mr. Oakly quickly withdrew. 

A moment — an age to Mrs. Sullivan — the door gently 
unclosed and mother and child were folded in each 
other's arms. 

There are feelings which no language can convey — 
and which to attempt to paint would seem almost a sacri- 
lege. 

In a short time Mr. Oakly re-entered, accompanied by 
his wife. The meeting between the mothers was pain- 
ful — for each felt there was still another trial for them ! 
Mrs. Oakly now really loved Louisa, and that Mrs. Sul- 
livan was most fondly attached to poor Agatha the reader 
already knows. 

" O she has been a solace and a comfort to me ! " said 
she to Mrs. Oakly, " a more noble-minded — a more un- 
selfish, pure being never lived than our dear Agatha I 
believe me, to part from her will cause a pang nearly as 
great as when I first gave my darling Louisa to your 
arms ! " 

Another hour was spent in free communion, and then 
tenderly embracing her new found daughter, the happy 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 213 

mother returned home — the events of the morning seem- 
ing almost too blissful to be real ! 

It was sometime ere she could command herself suffi- 
ciently to the task before her. At length summoning all 
her resolution she made known to her astonished hus- 
band and Ruth the strange secret she had so long buried 
in her breast. 

Mr. Sullivan undertook to break the intelligence to 
Agatha. 

Poor Agatha was very much overcome, and for several 
hours her distress was such as made them almost tremble 
for her reason. Although the circumstances were related 
in the most guarded and delicate manner, nor even a 
hint given as to the motives of an act so unnatural as her 
father had been guilty of toward her — her sensitive mind 
too well divined the cause. 

" Yet how can I blame them," said she, glancing in a 
mirror as she spoke, " who could love such a being ! Ah, 
forgive me," s*he cried, throwing her arms around the 
neck of Mrs. Sullivan, who now joined them — " forgive 
me — you — you received me — my best, my dearest, my 
only mother — you took the little outcast to your arms — 
you could love even the mis-shapen child whom others 
loathed ! " 

Mrs. Sullivan strove by the most gentle caresses to 
soothe her agitation, and at length succeeded so far that 
Agatha listened calmly to all she had to say, and ex- 
pressed her desire to be guided by her in every thing 
relating to this (to her) painful disclosure. 

Almost in a fainting state was Agatha given to her 
mother's arms, and at sight of her father she shuddered 
and buried her face in her hands. 



214 THE WIDO^Y AND THE DEFORMED. 

O the pang that went to the soul of her wretched 
father as he witnessed this ! 

" Agatha, my cJiiid, will you not then look upon me ! 
will you not say you forgive me ? " 

She extended her hand wet with tears : 

" Father, I have nothing to pardon. I am not now 
less hideous in form than when to look upon me caused 
you shame and sorrow. In giving me to my dearest aunt 
you gave me every blessing, every happiness, which this 
world has for me — but do not, do not now tear me 
from her ? " 

*♦ O God ! I am rightly punished I " exclaimed Mr. 
Oakly — '' my own child in turn disowns me ! " 

'' Agatha," said Mrs. Oakly, " will you not love 7?i€ — 
love your mother, Agatha ? " 

Agatha hesitated, and her beautiful eyes streamed with 
tears — 

'• Mother 1 I can give that name to but one ! — ^ere 
here is my tnother ! " turning and throwing her arms 
around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan. 

Not so was it with Louisa. Like a dove long panting 
for its rest, she had at last reached that haven of 
love — a mother's heart ! 

Indeed so much distress did the thought of being sep- 
arated from her more than mother cause poor Agatha, 
that, fearful for her health, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan pre- 
vailed upon her parents to take up their residence with 
them for a few months, to which request they finally 
acceded. 

Soon after her first interview with Mr. Oakly, Mrs. 
Sullivan presented him with a deed of the cottage, which 
so many years before he had given her, little dreaming 



THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 215 

that any reverse of fortune would ever make him grateful 
for so humble a shelter ! 

" The rent," said she, " has been regularly paid into 
the hands of a faithful person, who also holds in trust 
the remittances which you from time to time forwarded 
me. I placed them there for the benefit of Agatha, should 
she survive me. It came from you originally — it is 
again your own — then hesitate not to receive it from my 
hands." 

" Excellent, noble woman ! " exclaimed Mr. Oakly, 
overwhelmed with emotion, " how little have I merited 
this kindness ! " 

Indeed, together with principal and interest, what at 
first was but a trifling sum, had in the course of eighteen 
or twenty years amounted to quite a little fortune. It 
was now settled that as soon as the Spring opened Mr. 
and Mrs. Oakly were to take possession of the little cot- 
tage, and rather than be separated from their dear Agatha, 
the SuUivans were soon to follow and take lodgings for 
the summer months. 



*' But, my dear madam," says the reader, " you have 
entirely forgotten to tell us what became of the unfortu- 
nate anist, the lover of Louisa, whom you appear to 
think happy enough in her present situation without a 
lover." 

" no, dear reader — but this is not a love-story, you 
know — if it were I would tell you the particulars of a 
most interesting love scene between Walter Evertson and 
his adored Louisa. Suffice it to say, they were mar- 
ried, and that the picture which caused their unhappy 
separation occupies a conspicuous place in their beautiful 
villa, a few miles from the city of P— — . 



216 THE COUNTESS. 



THE COUNTESS, 

A ROMANCE. 

** Oh, the saints, what will become of us, my lady ! All 
alone in this dismal old Chateau, and two gay young 
officers billeted upon us. — O del, what shall we do ! " 
And it was piteous to see the distress with which poor 
Lisette wrung her hands and rolled up a pair of sparkling 
black eyes. 

With a look of surprise, the Countess raised hers from 
the embroidery on which they were bent, and demanded : 

" What are you talking about, Lisette ? Officers bil- 
leted upon us — what mean you ? " 

" Ah, my dear lady, you heard tlie drums this morn- 
ing — ?no}i Dieu, a whole regiment has marched into 
the village, and every house, even the good curias, is 
filled with these terrible soldiers, and then they cannot 
all find lodgings ; and so the cure has sent them to the 
Chateau — and, oh, my lady, you will be frightened to 
death, I know you will, for there they are already below 
in the court, with their swords, and pistols, and horrible 
moustaches, as if for all the world they had come here to 
devour us ! '' 

" This is indeed embarrassing, my good girl. Send 
Jacques hither at once." And rising from her embroid- 
ery frame, the Countess walked to the window which 
commanded a view of the court-yard. 



THE COUNTESS. 217 

Ah, no wonder the pretty young countess blushed like 
a damask rose, as she looked down upon the two gay 
chevaliers thus forced upon her hospitality ! — bold, dash- 
ing soldiers — their splendid uniforms glittering with gold, 
and their long white plumes floating on the breeze, as 
they paced to and fro the broad limits of the court ! It 
was, indeed, as she had averred, very embarrassing! For 
ever since the death of the old count, her husband, she 
had remained like the beautiful p'rincess in the fairy tale, 
shut up in the chateau, seeing no one, save Father Am- 
brose, the cure, and the faithful domestics who shared 
her solitude. 

*' How is this, Jac'ques ! " she cried, as the old man 
tottered in ; "what is it Lisette tells me — is our chateau, 
indeed, turned into a garrison? Methinks our good 
father Ambrose has gone beyond the limits of forbear- 
ance, in sending hither such guests ! " 

" Ah, my dear mistress, pardon the good father ! " an- 
swered Jacques, " he is half bewildered — and, indeed, the 
whole village is turned topsy-turvy, by the marching in 
of this regiment. Every house is filled, and some of the 
men, I am told, have even to quarter in barns — les pauv- 
res — boys are shouting, women and children screaming, 
and then such a hubbub in the poultry yards. Ah, my 
lady, no wonder the cure is beside himself ! " 

"Jacques," said the Countess, "you must transfer 
these chevaliers elsewhere — alone, as 1 am, it is impossi- 
ble for me to receive guests of such a character under my 
roof. Go, and look to it at once, my good Jacques." 

" But, alas, Madame, they already refuse to go ! I 
begged of them to retire from the chateau — I told them 
with tears in my eyes, that my lady, the Countess, was 
14 



218 THE COUNTESS. 

young- and beautiful, and had not seen a soul since the 
old count's death, now a twelvemonth, and " 

" Jacques, Jacques," exclaimed the Countess, impa- 
tiently, " you surely were not so absurd as to say this ! " 

" Indeed, my lady, I did, for it is the truth ; and I cau- 
tioned them to reflect how very disagreeable their pres- 
ence would be to you ; and that, as you were a young 
and charming widow, it would not be proper for them 
thus to intrude upon your ladyship ! " 

" Mon Dieu, Jacques, how could you be so impru- 
dent ! " exclaimed the Countess, starting up, and pacing 
the room hurriedly. Then, with something of a smile, 
already chasing away the frown, she added, " well, mon 
ami, and what said they to such forcible arguments ? " 

" En verite, my lady ; one would have thought I had 
related some excellent jest, by the manner in which they 
laughed ; thanking me for the agreeable information I had 
given them, adding, that they certainly could not think 
of tearing themselves away from the Chateau, after the 
many inducements I had given them to stay. Then they 
handed me their cards, bidding me present them to your 
ladyship, whom they doubted not, was as beautiful as an 
angel — " 

" Coxcombs ! " 

" And with their most profound respects, to say, that, 
however they might regret being thus forced to intrude 
themselves, their necessities must compel them to de- 
mand the hospitality of the Chateau." 

*' Cool, at any rate ! " remarked the Countess, with a 
toss of her pretty head. " These cards, — let us see who 
it is thus honors us. ' Louis Auguste, Francois Belle- 
garde, Colonel &c. &;c.' ' Eugene Montespan, Lieuten- 



THE COUNTESS. 219 

ant &c. &c.' Tres Men, Jacques, we must see to the 
entertainment of these guests." 

The Countess mused for a moment ; then a saucy 
smile dimpled her rosy little mouth, and mischief sat in 
her large blue eye. " Jacques," she cried, turning sud- 
denly to her old servant, " Jacques, it would not become 
us to be inhospitable to the brave soldiers of the Em- 
peror." 

^^ Ah, vous avez raison, — Vive VEmpereur ! " ex- 
claimed Jacques. " Ah, I was once a soldier myself, — 
yes, under the banner of " 

" Never mind now, Jacques," interrupted the Countess. 
" Conduct these gallant officers then to the east-wing of 
the chateau ; be attentive to all their wants, let Adolphe 
wait upon ihem, and bid him not fail in any mark of 
respect due such distinguished guests. Let dinner be 
served in the great banqueting hall; there — go, — and 
send Lisette to me." 

The old man hesitated, took a step toward the door, 
then returned, played with his fingers, rubbed his eye- 
brows : 

" My honored lady — ahem — pardon an old man, but 
these are no doubt, wild young scamps, — I — my lady — 
I was going to say, — grace a Dieu — I think I know how 
to wait upon these gallants, and so if you please, I will 
serve dinner, for my lady, the Countess, in her private 
apartment." 

" Ah, my good Jacques," said the Countess smiling, 
" then you think I had better not appear before these gay 
gallants ? " 

" Pardon, my dear mistress, you are so young and 
charming." 



220 THE COUNTESS. 

" Never fear, mon ami, only do as 1 bid you and listen, 
Jacques, whatever I may say, or whatever you may see 
me do, show no surprise. In an hour, I will in person, 
receive our guests." 



" But my lady, " 

♦' Well, Jacques ! " 

" My dear young mistress, let me entreat, you will 
not." 

" Ah, my good Jacques," cried the Countess, laughing, 

and playfully patting the old man's cheek, " be easy, you 

shall see how soon these dashing chevaliers will fall in 

love with your mistress ! Now go, and send Lisette 

speedily." 

'^ w "^ '¥^ '¥? ^ 

" Come here, Lisette, — now can you be secret ? " 

Lisette bit her lips, as if to caution them of what they 
might expect, should they be tempted to blab, and folding 
her arms tightly over her neat little boddice, protested 
and vowed, she would be as secret as — as — 

" As most women, doubtless," answered her mistress. 
" But you must promise me, that no consideration shall 
induce you to divulge the secret, with which I am about 
to entrust you." 

" Ah, my dear lady, you may safely confide in me ; I 
betray my dear mistress, I prove unfaithful to your com- 
mands ! The saints forbid ! I will not tell even Adolphe, 
no, not even if he should give me those red ribbons he 
promised to bring me from the fair ! " 

*'Very well, Lisette, I think I may trust you, even 
against so tempting a bribe, as a new top-knot," answered 
the Countess. " As for Adolphe, let me see ; yes, Li- 



THE COUNTESS. 221 

sette, I think we must positively let him into our secret. 
And now tell me, Lisette, have you seen these officers?" 

Quite in a passion, apparently, did this question throw 
the \hi\e femme de chambre ; her eyes grew rounder, and 
brighter, and her cheeks redder, and redder, as she pro- 
ceeded to relate how she had just met them in the gal- 
lery, as she was walking along, and singing to herself, 
and not thinking or caring, she was sure, about them ; for 
if they did wear epaulettes on their shoulders, and feath- 
ers in their caps, they were not half so handsome as 
Adolphe, she could tell them. " And then one of them, 

my lady, swore I had d sh fine eyes, yes, indeed he 

did, my lady, and then squeezed my hand, in such a 
fashion, that — ha ! ha I ha I I warrant his cheeks tingle 
yet, with the blow he got from it ! And then, the 
other came up with a mighty sweet smile, and asked 
me, if my lady, the Countess, was not the most 
beautiful creature in the whole world, — and, may the 
saints in glory forgive me, my lady, I told him No, — that 
you were old, and ugly, and " 

" Bravo, Lisette ! Well, and what said he ? " 

" He only laughed, and chucking me under the chin, 
vowed I had spoken falsely, for that if my mistress was 
old and ugly, he knew very well she would never employ 
so preity a maid. Ah ! I wish the chateau was well rid 
of them ; for, would you believe it, this bold fellow then 
said," here Lisette came close to her young mistress, and 
whispered, — " yes, said he would run away with you ! 
Mon Dieu ! run away with my charming mistress ! " 

Was her young lady bewitched, or why that merry 
peal of laughter ! Instead of the overwhelming indigna- 
tion Lisette expected to witness, the Countess appeared 



222 THE COUNTESS. 

to think the idea of being run away with, a capital joke ; 
clapping her little hands, and even embracing the bewil- 
dered /t'7«;?ie de chamhre in her glee. 

" Eh bien ! Lisetle," said the Countess, at length 
abating her mirth, " we must punish these gay gallants 
for their assurance. You have unconsciously assisted 
my project. Now remember, you are to be very secret ; 
you are to do just as I tell you, and under all circum- 
stances to appear perfectly unconscious that any thing 
unusual is going on. Take courage, my poor Lisette ; I 
warrant these gay fellows will soon turn their backs upon 
the chateau. Now, come with me to my chamber, and 
we will prepare to receive these cavaliers as they de- 
serve. AUons ! " 

^ * ^ ^ "H^ T^ 

In another wing of the old chateau were our two offi- 
cers, whose unlucky advent had caused so much confu- 
sion. Hungry as wolves, for they had tasted nothing 
since daybreak, they were impatiently awaiting a sum- 
mons to the sail e- a- 77111 ?iger. 

Silly little Lisette had no need to trouble her head 
about them I What if the gallant Colonel did press her 
little brown hand, as plump as a young pigeon, or chuck 
her dimpled chin : more did he care for the smack of a 
fine fat capon, than for the rosiest lips in all France ; and 
I'll warrant that the sight of a sparkling wine cup would, 
at that moment, have filled him with more pleasure than 
a glance from the brightest eyes he had ever pledged 
therein I 

'• W ill that infernal dinner bell never sound ?" exclaimed 
Bellegarde, the gallant Colonel, impatiently. 

You see, dear reader, the truth of my assertions. 



THE COUNTESS. 223 

'* Patience, patience, mon ami^^ interposed his com- 
panion, who, it is but justice to affirm, was gazing with 
evident pleasure upon the enchanting landscape spread 
out before him — not even the keen cravings of appetite 
could blunt his appreciation of the beautiful in nature. 

" Ma foi ! you may well preach of patience to a man 
who has fed only upon sour bread and garlics for a 
month ! Diable, Eugene, what has come over you ? 
An hour since, and you were as famished as myself, and 
now, with the air of a well-fed berger^ you cry ' Pa- 
tience ! patience /' Methinks you must find the air of 
this crumbling old pile vastly invigorating !" 

Thus grumbled the Colonel — but the more he grumbled, 
the more cheerful became his companion ; it was thunder 
and sunshine at the same moment. 

"Come, come, Bellegarde !" exclaimed Montespan, 
" cease this railing, and tell me, what think you of the 
very opposite portraits drawn of the mistress of these fair 
domains which we have received from the lips of her 
attendants ? Quoth the old steward — ' My lady is a 
charming young widow, and beautiful as an angel ; 
begone, therefore — you cannot enter here;' while, on the 
other hand, that little vixen of a Jille-de-chamhre would 
make one believe her mistress as old as my grandmother ! 
What say you. Colonel ?" 

"That I care not whether she be fair as Venus, or 
ugly as Hecate, so that her viands be but tender, and her 
wine old," replied Bellegarde, drawing forth his watch. 

"Incorrigible gourmand!" cried his friend; "have 
you then no curiosity to solve this enigma — no desire to 
behold this wonderful woman, in whose person youth 
and beauty, old age and ugliness are synonymous ! Ha, 



2:24 THE COUNTESS. 

ha. ha ! mafoi ! I shall not soon forget the perplexed 
and anxious look with which that old fellow, the stew- 
ard, I suppose, enireaied us to continue our march ; the 
very arguments he enforced defeating his own object ; 
like a man in haste to arrive at his journey's end, first 
laming the steed that is to bear him." 

" And I will lay you a wager," interrupted the other, 
his thoughts for a moment soaring higher than his stom- 
ach, " that, after all, his picture is the right one. Yes, 
yes, 7non ami, we shall find our Countess beautiful as an 
angel. J\Ia foi I well thought of — eh, Euo;ene, am I 
presentable ? The toilet of a soldier on march is but a 
rough one for a lady's boudoir ; tell me, shall I not shock 
the fair one by my bearish appearance !" 

*^ N imporie,'' replied Montespan, laughing, ''attend 
to her ladyship's mutton, if you please, and " 

" Leave the lamb to you, you would say ; tres bie?i ! 
agreed; now, hark! grace a Dieu ! there sounds the 
dinner bell — a2Io7is ! and here comes our crusty old 
friend to marshal us, I suppose." 

Yes, it was Jacques at last, who bowing, conducted 
our two friends to the saUe'd-7}ia7iger. 

Jacques threw open the large folding doors leading 
from the lofty corridor into the dining room. At the 
same moment, as if governed by the same impulse, two 
other doors, directly opposite, silently flew back, and at 
the instant when the Colonel and his friend stepped over 
the marble sill on one side, Lisette, assisted by her lover 
Adolphe, appeared upon the other, wheeling in a small 
couch, covered with black velvet, and over which was 
suspended a canopy of black lace, fringed with gold. 



THE COUNTESS. 225 

Beneath this canopy reclined an elderly lady, dressed 
in the deepest mourning weeds. As her attendants 
wheeled the couch nearer the table, she bowed coldly to 
her stranger guests, and motioned them to be seated, the 
one upon her right hand, the other upon her left. Her 
hair, already silvery white, was parted smoothly on her 
brow, brought far down over her temples, and confined 
by a close widow's cap of plain while leno. Yet what 
added greatly to the singularity of her appearance v/as 
an immense pair of green goggles — so huge, in fact, that 
they almost obscured even her nose ! 

" The little shrew was right ; confound her black eyes, 
how they twinkle," thought Bellegarde. " Ugly ! she 
is a perfect ogress," 

" Peste ! what stuff was the old man prating, about 
his beautiful young mistress, the charming widow. 
Widow ! ma foi ! Yes, and likely to remain so ; 
heavens, what a fright !" soliloquized the Lieutenant at 
the same moment. 

" Gentlemen," said the unconscious object of such 
slanderous thoughts, " although we have for many 
months eschewed all society, nor since the death of the 
master of these domains have admitted other to our 
presence than the few faithful attendants you see around 
you ; we, nevertheless, bid you welcome to our chateau, 
and to such poor fare as is in our power to place before 
you." 

Saying this with the most stately air, she motioned 
Jacques to fill the glasses of her guebts, and merely 
touching her lips to her own, gracefully bent her head in 
token of the sincerity of her words. 



226 THE COUNTESS. 

" Have we, then, the honor of addressing the Countess 
D'Argentine ?" said the gallant Colonel. 

The Countess bowed, but in so stately a manner as to 
check all further attempts at conversation. 

Bellegarde, however, soon buried his chagrin in a fine 
venison pastry, and with copious libations of her lady- 
ship's excellent Bordeaux, washed down his disappoint- 
ment. 

Not so Montespan. All the delicacies in the world 
would now have failed to tempt his appetite. Besides 
he felt embarrassed — ill at ease in the presence of this 
singular Countess, who caused herself to be thus borne, 
like some effigy of sorrow, hither and thither upon a 
funeral car. For as such seemed to him the sombre 
equipage on which she reclined. How many thoughts 
flitted through his brain ! 

She was lame then — perhaps paralytic ! And then 
those goggles — heavens, was she nearly blind, too ? 
Perhaps she had but one eye ! perhaps she squinted ! 
And drawing a long breath, the poor Lieutenant looked 
another way. But, as if by some magical influence his 
eyes again rested upon the Countess. 

Her complexion, what little her hair, and those hor- 
rible goggles left exposed, he discovered must have been 
fine in youth, for it was still quite fair and smooth ; while 
her chin might serve for the model of all chins — it was 
really a lo^'e of a chin, and either her teeth were in 
excellent preservation, or the dentist had accomplished a 
chef d'cBUvre, when he supplied her ladyship's gunis. 

He felt tempted to knock down old Jacques. Just as 
if it was his fault that his mistress was so old and ugly ; 
and as for Lisette, how he did long to shake her, looking 



THE COUNTESS. 227 

at him as she did with such saucy, knowing eyes. In 
fact, he was getting quite savage, when suddenly the 
Countess, with another bend of her aristocratic head, was 
borne from the presence of her guests. 

The heavy folding doors silently swung together, and 
they were left to their wine — alone, save Jacques. 

'''■ Par (lieu V^ cried the Colonel, seizing the old man 
by the arm, " did you not tell me your mistress was 
young?" 

" Oui, Monsieur .'" 

" And very beautiful ?" quoth the Lieutenant. 

" 0^^^, Monsieur — my lady is young and beautiful ; for 
goodness like hers never grows old or decays." 

" Bravo ! a sentence worthy of Fenelon ; your health, 
old gargon.^^ 

At this moment Adolphe entered with the compliments 
of the Countess d'Argentine, and would be happy to see 
the gentlemen in the drawing room. 

"Pe5?e.?" whispered the Colonel, "I'd much prefer 
the bottle ; an agreeable time we shall have, ma foi, with 
the old lady. I leave her to you, Eugene, and will make 
love to that arch little coquette, the maid." 

-it, -^ ^ ■it, .il, -^ ^ M, 

The immense drawing room was blazing with light. 
There was, in fact, but one dark spot — it was the little 
old Countess, still reclining upon that hearse-like appen- 
dage, and half buried within the black velvet cushions. 
At her feet knelt Lisette, with an enormous fan of pea- 
cock feathers, which she waved incessantly, as though 
her mistress suffered from faintness. Nothing could be 
more recherche than the taste which marked the adorn- 
ments of this splendid apartment ; no particular style, 



228 THE COUNTESS. 

no particular date had here its portraiture, but there was 
a grouping together of the rare and beautiful, most 
charming to the eye. Here was music, too ; a beautiful 
harp rested its golden frame against cushions of azure 
velvet — a piano, its keys glittering in the mellow light of 
waxen tapers, and, as if carelessly thrown by the same 
fairy hand that had swept its strings, a guitar lay upon a 
small table within a little recess, over which curtains of 
crimson velvet swept to the floor. 

" Mafoir' whispered the Colonel, with a shrug of his 
shoulders, as his eye took in this brilliant scene, and then 
glanced toward the black mass in its centre. " The spot 
upon the sun ! Mafoi, our hostess well befits this tem- 
ple of beauty ! But, allons, let us lay our laurels at her 
shrine." Then with something of a swaggering air, 
approaching the Countess, he attempted to pass off a few 
witty compliments. Abashed and crest-fallen, he soon 
fell back, for an empress could not have assumed more 
haughtiness than did that same old Countess behind her 
horrible goggles I 

Montespan was not more fortunate in his advances, 
and turning away, sought for amusement among the 
numerous gems of art which adorned the walls. Leav- 
ing all others, his eye rested upon one picture alone. 

It was a portrait — the portrait of a charming young 
girl, but so life-like, so fresh, so beaming with gladness, 
as she stood there, the very personation of " heaven 
y'clep'd Euphrosyne," that our chevalier involuntarily 
opened his arms, as if to catch the nymph in the airy 
descent she was about to risk. This charming por- 
trait represented a young girl tripping beneath a broken 
archway, as if in playful chase of the little fawn skipping 



THE COUNTESS. 229 

and leaping before her over the grass grown ruins. A 
robe of pure white, confined at the slender waist by a 
scarf of pale blue silk, floated with airy grace around her 
lovely form^ — save a narrow fall of lace upon the shoul- 
der, her fair, round arms were bare — one little hand 
gathering her robe above the tiny foot, just poised upon 
a fragment of the ruins, as if to spring therefrom — the 
other swept back from her beautiful brow the long, golden 
tresses, wherein a few wild flowers were carelessly en- 
twined. What could be more graceful than her attitude 
— what more charming than her sweet, youthful face ! 
Ah ! Montespan was very sure the world could not pro- 
duce its equal ! 

The Countess saw a great deal behind those goggles — 
yes, and she saw the start of surprise which marked our 
chevalier's first view of the portrait, and she saw what 
an impromptu pantomine was performing before that 
senseless canvass ! 

A low, musical laugh broke the solemn silence ! 

Could it have been that little, impudent^^ZZe de cham- 
bre ! Eugene turned round. The Colonel turned 
round. Well — the Countess was as motionless as a 
statue, while Lisette, with a face half an ell long, was 
sweeping the ponderous fan with the regularity of a 
Chinese puntak. It must have been a bird — yes, it is 
astonishing how some birds will imitate the human 
voice, thought Eugene. And this reminded the Colonel 
of music, so once more approaching the couch of the 
' dark ladye,' he ventured : 

"Your ladyship, I see, is a patroness of the goddess 
Melpomene — may I presume to inquire, do you play ? " 

" When I am in the mood for music," was the reply. 



230 THE COUNTESS. 

Another silence — and again the brave Colonel hazard- 
ed a few remarks, which were met with the same 
chilling reserve. 

" You have really some exquisite paintings, Madame," 
exclaimed Montespan ; " pardon my curiosity, but will 
you have the kindness to inform me whether that beauti- 
ful picture which hangs opposite, is an original portrait, 
or some ideal sketch of the artist — if so, like Prome- 
theus, he must have worshiped the creation of his own 
genius ! " 

«' Lisette, does the gentleman allude to the picture in 
the oaken panel?" asked the Countess, without turning 
her haughty head. 

" Ah, oui, Madame." 

" It is an original, Monsieur," with a slight, very 
slight inclination of the head. 

" Moil Bieu ! how lovely ! And, will Madame excuse 
the liberty — this beautiful creature — she — she still 
l-i-ves ? " 

Another slight bow was the only response. The. 
Countess then blows a small silver whistle — Adolphe 
glides in, and stations himself behind the sombre couch 
of his lady. Lisette, with a coquetish air, throws 
down the fan, and stands by the side of her lover. A 
slight effort — a gentle pressure — and slowly the strange 
equipage moves forward — slowly — slowly, and with a 
formal " good evening, Messieurs," the Countess D'Ar- 
gentine disappears. 

T^ *«• ^ -T?- * 

" Ah, was there ever such a fright ? " quoth the 
wicked little Countess, viewing herself in the full 



THE COUNTESS. 231 

length mirror. ''What think you now, m}?- good Lisette, 
are we in danger of being run away with? " 

*' Ah, but my dear lady— c'e^^ dommage — you so 
young — so charming ! del, ihat odious cap — that 
horrid wig — ah, let me tear them to pieces ! " cried 
Lisette, preparing to disrobe her young mistress. 

" Carefully, carefully, ma honne — remember we have 
need of this same odious cap and wig again." 

" But these goggles — ah, mon dieu — suffer me to 
break them." 

" Not at all, Lisette — these goggles, too, must do their 
duty." 

Lisette assented, with very bad grace, to her lady- 
ship's whim, and while she braided the long, fair hair of 
her mistress, and prepared her toilet for the night, 
continued to chatter about the handsome chevaliers, and 
what a pity it was after all, that they should think her 
beautiful lady was such a fright ! While the Countess, 
it must be owned, hstened to the idle prating of YiQtfille 
de chambre, with praiseworthy patience : 

" Lisette, he is very handsome — heigho ! " 

" The Colonel, my lady ? " 

" Oh, no — the Colonel — he is very stupid ! " 

" It is Monsieur Montespan, my lady thinks is hand- 
some." 

" Heigh-ho ! " 

" Yes, my lady, he is very fine." 

*' Such magnificent large eyes ! " 

" Oui, Madame:' 

" Such a splendid figure ! " 

" Ah, yes." 

" And so graceful ! " 

" So graceful, Madame ! " 



232 THE COUNTESS. 

"Lisette." 

" Madame." 

" No matter, — you may go." And resting her dimpled 
chin in the hollow of her little hand, the thoughts of the 
Countess got entangled in such a maze, as — but no 
matter, — we must not betray our little heroine, — so good 
night, charming Countess. 

-^ ^ ^£f "^ 4te -^ 

'Tr- •Tv' VP* 'Tv' •3^ "rr 

"Ha! ha! mon ami, what say you now, to running 
off with our fair hostess ! " cried the Colonel laughing, 
and slapping Montespan upon the shoulder. 

" Why, as the lady does not seem to have the use of 
her limbs, I must give it up, Colonel." 

" Good. But what a misfortune ; had this widow 
been but young, and charming, we might have crossed 
swords, for the possession of these fine domains." 

" But listen, Colonel, — that portrait, tell me, was 
there ever such an angel, such beauty, such sweet in- 
nocence ! Ah, mon ami, could I but behold the heavenly 
original." 

" Charming,-^ — and find her grandmother, perhaps." 

" Ah, impossible ; who knows, my friend, perhaps this 
lovely being dwells within these walls. O rapture ! yes, 
it must be so, the harp, the guitar, the paintings, the 
books, all proclaim her presence; I tell you there is 
some mystery here." 

" Yes, yes, you are right, Eugene. Some step- 
daughter, perhaps, held in 'durance vile,' through 
jealousy, — some dependent niece, — yes, yes, far only 
fancy the old lady at the harp, or sweeping the guitar ; 
mafoi, the idea is too absurd. Allans, let us summon 
Jacques." 



THE COUNTESS. 233 

" Ah, Jacques, come in, Jacques. Charming old lady, 
your mistress, you have lived here, I suppose, at this old 
chateau, — fine place — beautiful scenery — I say, you have 
lived here, I suppose, many years, good Jacques." 

" Yes, you may say that, Monsieur, six and sixty 
years man and boy, have I dwelt within these old walls ; 
and never, until the death of my honored master, the 
Count, had I cause of sorrow." 

" But now, I suppose, it is difTerent — the Countess has 
it all her own way, you understand." 

" Non, Monsieur, I do not understand — but if your 
honor means any thing disparaging to my beloved 
mistress, I — I am an old man, but pardonnez-moi, I 
should feel constrained to knock your honor down ! " 

" Ha, ha ; bravo — no, nothing at all disparaging, 
Jacques. She is an excellent mistress." 

" Ah, Monsieur, she is the kindest, the loveliest, the 
sweetest young lady." 

" How — what — Jacques ! — young — ha, ha, come, that 
won't do ! " 

" Pardon me, Monsieur, I have known my lady ever 
since she was a child, and I forget " 

" Yes, you forget that you have grown old together." 

*' Did your master, the Count D'Argentine, leave any 
children ? " said Montespan, for the first time joining in 
the conversation. 

" Children — oh, no. Monsieur ; why they were only 
married a few hours before my honored master breathed 
his last ! " 

" Then, whose portrait is that which hangs in the 
drawing room, good Jacques ? " 

•' That — why, that is the Countess herself." 
15 



234 THE COUNTESS, 

" Fl-donc ! That is impossible ; the colors are as 
fresh and glowing as if painted yesterday, and it should 
be more than fifty years old. No, no, good Jacques, you 
mistake." 

" Ah, your honor, just like that picture does my be- 
loved lady look to me, even to this day ! " 

" Then, by all the saints in the calender, I wish I saw 
with your eyes ! But the harp, the piano, who plays ? " 

" Why, my lady plays and sings like an angel ; a-hem, 
I mean — that is — she did play like an angel." 

" But her fingers are getting stiff — eh, Jacques ? " 
added the Colonel, " no offence, Jacques — thank you — 
thank you — good night." 

A week — how soon it passed even in that old chateau 

— and the little circle thus strangely thrown together, 

became quite agreeable and confidently. The Colonel 

sings 

" Combien j'aime, 
Hors moi-m§me, 
Tout ici ! " 

while he ogles Lisette, whose blushes and smiles, render 
poor Adolphe quite beside himself with jealousy. He 
also hunts in the forest, and drinks wine with his 
comrades below in the village, where all is mirth and 
jollity. Montespan, in the mean time, cannot account 
for the strange interest which keeps him within the 
chateau. He spends a great deal of time before that 
mysterious portrait. He feels unaccountably attracted 
toward the old Countess— at the sound of her. low, soft 
voice, he becomes confused, and wonders why% isMP 
much sweeter than any other woman's he ever hearlw^ 
He is now almost constantly by the side of that funeral 



THE COUNTESS. 235 

couch — he sometimes takes the fan from the hands of 
Lisette ; yes, and more than once assists Adolphe to 
place his mistress where she directs — it is such a 
pleasure to serve so amiable an old lady ! 

The reserve of the Countess rapidly wears off; she 
condescends to converse agreeably. She is fond of 
reading— so is Montespan ; it is surprising how their 
tastes assimilate. Together they read Racine, Rousseau, 
and the charming Sevignp, and the Countess is several 
times thrown into an agitation quite unsuited to her 
years. Montespan is a musician, too — he plays the 
piano with superior skill, blending therewith the tones 
of his rich voice. Sometimes the Countess is prevailed 
on to touch the guitar— she certainly makes sweet 
music; but it is an effort, she says, and she dare not 
trust her voice to sing ; it is tremulous — [query, with 
age ?) She begins to abhor that odious cap and wig, as 
much as Lisette, and substitutes a pair of spectacles for 
those horrible goggles ! 

" Strani;e," said Montespan, one day, with his eyes 
fixed on that charming portrait — " strange, when I listen 
to the Countess, I sometimes forget, like poor old 
Jacques, that she is no longer young and beautiful? " 

Jt -5i- -Si- 4i- -Si- 44- 

T" "TV- w •??■ "Tt- "TF 

" You are not well this morning, my friend ! " 

" Perfectly so, honorable lady ; but my regiment leaves 

tomorrow." 

" Tomorrow ; ah, so soon ! " and there was a slight 

tremor 4'n the voice of the speaker. 
' " The thought of parting, perhaps forever," continued 

Montespan, " with one to whom I am indebted for so 

much kindness, fills me with pain ! " 



236 THE COUNTESS. 

The Countess turned away her head, and Montespan 
saw she grew very pale. 

"Ah, it is you, Madanme ; you who are not well — 
alas, you have exerted yourself too much ! " 

" No ; it is only a faintness with which I am some- 
times seized. I am better now." 

For the first time, he ventured to take her hand — that 
hand so fair and delicate — its touch thrilled him — he 
carried it to his lips. 

" Pardon me, estimable lady, your kindness to a stran- 
ger has called forth feelings such as I never before expe- 
rienced ! Helas, Madame, I am alone in the world — an 
orphan from my earliest childhood. No mother's love, 
dear lady, ever blessed me ; pardon me, but since I have 
had the happiness of knowing you, I have for the first 
time realized of what an inestimable treasure death has 
deprived me ! Ah, Madame, that you were indeed my 
mother !" 

" Your mother ! A — h !" screamed the Countess, and 
buried her face in her handkerchief — suddenly she be- 
came convulsed — there was a merry peal of laughter — 
then low, deep sobs succeeded. 

" Oh, heavens, you are very ill !" exclaimed Monte- 
span, not doubting the poor lady was in hysterics, " and 
I — I have caused it ; Ah, quel malheur ! Lisette, — 
Adolphe — " and seizing the fan, he began to wave it 
rapidly, over the head of the unfortunate Countess. 

In a moment, however, she recovered herself. '^Helas, 
my friend," said she, " you touched a chord, of whose 
vibration you little dreamed." Then drawing a valua- 
ble ring from her slender finger, " Accept this, my dear 
young friend, in token of the regard with which you 



THE COUNTESS. 237 

have inspired me. If, at any future day, you have a 
boon to ask of the Countess D'Argentine, send me this 
ring, and it is granted. Adieu, mon ami .'" 

.Al, ^ ^ M, ^ ■il' 

T? VC" W Tf- "TV" Tf 

Hark, how mournfully echo the drums, as the regiment 
slowly winds through the rugged defiles of the mountain. 

And the Countess and Lisette stand watching them 
from a turret of the old chateau. 

" Ah, les pauvres ! and they were such charming 
chevaliers! Helas I"" exclaimed Lisette, wiping her eyes. 
" And now, my lady, as they are gone, I suppose I may 
as well put away your venerable grandmother's wig." 

" Ye-e-s, Lisette, — heigh-ho !" 

" And the cap, and the " 

" Yes, Lisette, take them all, all away, — Helas ! I wish 
I had never seen them." 

But whether her mistress meant the wig, or the 
Chevaliers, Lisette could not determine. 

4/, .u, M. .^ .u. M^ 

W W "Tf" 'TV' -Tf" 'T^ 

All Paris, that is all the musical world of Paris, was 
in ecstasy. Radiant with the most lovely countenances, 
with eyes more sparkling than the brightest jewels, and 
smiles so beaming with the happiness of the hour — the 
Opera House presented one blaze of magnificence, from 
pit to gallery. 

These happy people, — yes, they are happy — forgetting, 
for a few brief moments, the vicissitudes of the world 
without, they have met beneath this splendid dome, to 
greet once more their favorite Prima-donna, who, after a 
twelve-month's absence is again to thrill their souls with 
her ravishing notes. Even Royalty itself has steppe'd 



238 THE COUXTESS. 

from the throne, to smile upon this nightingale of the 
hour. 

It was rather late, as a party of officers entered this 
scene of brilliancy. Chatting, and laughing gaily, their 
eyes appeared far more engaged in surveying the galaxy 
of beauty which surrounded them, than their ears, in 
listening to the magnificent trills gushing forth from the 
enchantress of song. One of the party, however, must 
be an exception ; for after an indifferent glance around, 
he seated himself listlessly, in one corner of the box, and 
resting his head upon his hand, made his own thoughts 
his companions. 

" Come, come, Montespan, a truce to your melancholy, 
for to-night, man," exclaimed one, " How can you re- 
main so insensible to the peerless charms around ; see, 

there is the beautiful Marchioness D , one glance at 

her bewitching face, would warm the heart of an an- 
chorite ; and there, too, is that superb Madame, with her 
gazelle eyes, and the charming little Baroness, — but, 
wjon Dieu ! who is that lovely creature, just entering the 

box of La Duchesse De B ! Look ! look ! what an 

angel ; tell me, Baraton,— La Fleur, tell me, do you 
know who she is ?" 

No, they do not know; so they level their eye-glasses, 
and swear a great many oaths, that she is the most divine 
creature they have ever beheld. 

Scarcely conscious of so doing, Montespan languidly 
raised his head, and cast his eyes to the box of La 
Duchesse. HJeavens ! what does he see, that he thus 
starts to his feet, and with trembling hand, clings for 
sCipport to one of the gilded pillars ? Mark how his 
cheek flashes, and pales, by turns, and how wildly his 



THE COUNTESS. 239 

eyes rest upon that fair young creature, whose whole 
soul seems only intent upon the stage. 

Ah, well may he gaze, — for it is the living image of the 
picture, which hangs in the parlor of that old chateau, 
afar off among the mountains, and which, fresh and im- 
maculate, has hung in the inner chamber of his heart, 
for a whole year, that he sees. Fortunately, surprise and 
joy, do not often kill one, — if so, alas for poor Eugene, 
he must have given up the ghost on the spot. 

As a lily, swayed by the breeze, the lovely unknown 
suddenly inclines her graceful head to the spot where 
Montespan is still clinging to the pillar. Their eyes 
meet. By what strange sympathy, should this fair crea- 
ture also evince so much agitation ? As if involuntary, 
she half rises from the velvet cushions, and with her 
small hands clasped together, bends toward him, and 
then suddenly sinks back, nearly fainting. 

Again her eyes met his, but this time she did not 
withdraw them, while a blush like the shadow of a rose, 
mantled her sweet face. To render her resemblance to 
the portrait more perfect, she was dressed in pure white, 
with a few flowers enwreathed among the beautiful 
tresses which fell untrammeled around her. Montespan 
hid his face in his hands a few moments to assure him- 
self this was no illusion ; he looked again — oh, happi- 
ness ! she was still there ! 

Convinced, now, that his imagination had not played 
him false — that he really saw before him the original of 
that ravishing picture, Montespan scarcely knew how to 
deport himself in the first delirium of his joy. Then a 
thousand conflicting thoughts chased through his brain. 
Who could she be ? what connection could she possibly 



240 THE COUNTESS. 

have with the inmates of that old chateau ? why did his 
venerated friend the Countess, whose parting gift still 
sparkled upon his finger — why did she always shun 
inquiry, when he ventured to speak to her of that beauti- 
ful portrait. True, Jacques had affirmed this picture 
was that of the Countess herself; but the fallacy of this 
assertion was now fully established ; yet, strange ano- 
maly, so inseparably was the Countess associated with 
the picture, in his mind, that now to separate the two he 
found most painful. Suddenly the conversation he had 
held with the Countess at their last interview, her agita- 
tion, when he alluded to the ties of parent and child, and 
her remark, " you have touched a chord of whose vibration 
you little dreamed,''^ occurred to him, and with it the 
rapid conviction that this beautiful creature, whose 
resemblance to the portrait would almost challenge belief, 
could be no other than the daughter of the Countess 
D' Argentine. Yes, he was sure of it, and some unhappy 
difference had led to the estrangement of mother and 
child — quel malheur^ and so young and beautiful! Could-- 
she be married ? Married I ah, heaven forbid ! And 
raising his eyes with almost an imploring look to the 
spot where he had beheld her, he finds, alas ! the fair 
unknown has vanished, leaving no trace by which he can 
hope to see her again. 

"^ OlA. 4£, M^ 41, 4£,. 

wj^ "TV* '??• t't 'TV' •'v' 

" If to meet an old friend will be agreeable to Monsieur 
" Montespan, the Countess D' Argentine will be at home 
" to-morrow morning at twelve. 

" Hotel De B . Rue Chaussee D'Autin." 

Such was the billet which awaited our hero upon his 
return from the opera. 



THE COUNTESS. 241 

" Ah, happy moment ! The excellent Countess was 
then in Paris ; he should behold her again, that estima- 
ble, venerated friend ; and ah ! rapture — her daughter — 
that beautiful impersonation of all the loveliness which 
once adorned her mother — her, too, he should see — he 
should speak to her — perhaps touch her fair hand, per- 
haps " 

Ah ! to what heaven his imagination would not have 
soared, it is impossible to say, had not his aspiring 
thoughts been suddenly dashed to earth by the thought 
that he was only a poor Lieutenant, without friends or 
fortune ; which reflection caused him to beat his breast 
and tear his hair in such a tragedy fashion, that his kind 
landlady begged a set of merry lodgers in No. 10 to be 
quiet, as the poor young gentleman in No. 12 had a 
grievous headache — listen ! they might hear him now 
pacing his room, pauvre jeune homme ! 

^ ^A. .AT. .A£, AA. ^ 

•TV- -T? •tT- •Ty' ■vf' "TV" 

The next morning, at twelve o'clock, precisely, Mon- 

tespan was at the Hotel De B . He was introduced 

into a charming saloon, where he was told the Countess 
would soon receive him. 

The certainty of so soon meeting this beloved friend, 
drove all other thoughts from his mind ; even the portrait 
and its lovely counterpart were forgotten ! The same 
■delicious feelingf to which he attributes all the sweetness 
of filial regard, and which he experienced so forcibly at 
the chateau, again stirs his bosom. He wonders through 
which of the many doors the couch of the Countess will 
be drawn; he listened eagerly for her approach, when 
suddenly the tapestry at one end of the apartment is 
slightly raised, and the same lovely girl whom he had 



242 THE COUNTESS. 

seen in the box of La Duchesse De B glides in, and, 

with a graceful bend of the head, desires him to be 
seated. 

Conceive, if you can, his emotion ! It was with diffi- 
culty he could even return the salute of the fair lady, and 
I am sure you would have felt quite ashamed of his awk- 
wardness, dear reader, had you been there. At length 
he ventured to ask, " Have I the pleasure of addressing 
the daughter of my honored friend, the Countess D'Ar- 
gentine ?" 

A mischievous smile played over the young girl's 
features as she answered : 

" I am the Countess D'Argentine, Monsieur." 

" Good heavens !" exclaimed Montespan, turning pale, 
and forgetting all in this one apprehension, " do you tell 
me, helas ! that my excellent friend is no more ?" 

" Did you, then, esteem her so much ?" and the voice 
of the fair querist trembled. 

The tones of that voice made him start ; how much 
like the sweet accents of her mother ! 

" Pardon my agitation ; but tell me, when did this 
melancholy event take place ?" said Montespan. 

''Helas! it was on the 19th of August, 182-." 

"The 19ih of August! Mo7i Dieu ! why that was 
the very day I left the chateau ! alas ! and was her end 
so sudden ?" exclaimed Montespan. 

" True — it was. We buried her forever, Monsieur ; 
we bade farewell to her silvery hair, and — and her green 
goggles — and — " 

" But you smile ! Good heavens ! what mean you ?" 

The young girl extended her little hand, so much like 



THE COUNTESS. 243 

the hand of her departed mother, and with an arch smile, 
and a blash which well became her sweet face, said: 

" And when we skipped away from the funeral rites, 
we laughed at the ruse we had played our gay gallants. 
Hither, Lisette, and tell Monsieur of our masquerading 
in the old chateau !" 



m 



'■jm 



244 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 



THE CUETAIN LIFTED. 



OR PROFESSIONS — PRACTICAL AND THEORETICAL. 



CHAPTER I. 
The Deacon. -^ 

Everybody called Mr. Humphreys a good man. To 
have found any fault with the deacon would have been 
to impugn the church itself, whose most firm pillar he 
stood. No one stopped to analyze his goodness — it was 
enough that in all outward semblance, in the whole 
putting together of the outward man, there was a con- 
formity of sanctity ; that is, he read his Bible — held 
family prayers night and morning — preached long homi- 
lies to the young — gave in the cause of the heathen — 
and was, moreover, of a grave and solemn aspect, seldom 
given 10 the folly of laughter. 

All this, and more did good Deacon Humphreys ; and 
yet one thing he lacked, viz., the sweet spirit of charity. 

I mean not that he oppressed the widow, or robbed the 
orphan of bread ; no, not this, it was the cold, unforgiving 
spirit with which he looked upon the errors of his fellow 
man — the iron hand with which he thrust far from him 
the offender, which betrayed the want of that charity 
" which rejoiceth rvot in iniquity, suffereth long, and is 
kind.'^ 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 245 

He was also pertinaciously sectarian. No other path 
than the one in which he walked could lead to eternal 
life. No matter the sect, so that they differed from him, 
it was enough — they were outlawed from the gates of 
heaven. Ah! had the deacon shared more the spirit of 
our blessed Saviour, in whose name he offered up his 
prayers, then, indeed, might he have been entitled to the 
Christian character he professed. 

Mrs. Humphreys partook largely of her husband's 
views. She, too, was irreproachable in her daily walks, 
and her household presented a rare combination of order 
and neatness. The six days work was done, and done 
faithfully, and the seventh cared for, ere the going down 
of the Saturday's sun, which always left her house in 
order — her rooms newly swept and garnished — the 
stockings mended — the clean clothes laid out for the 
Sabbath wear — while in the kitchen pantry, a joint of 
cold meat, or a relay of pies, was provided, that no hand 
might labor for the creature comforts on the morrow. 
As the last rays of the sun disappeared from hill and 
valley, the doors of the house were closed — the blinds 
pulled down — the well-polished mahogany stand drawn 
from its upright position in the corner of the sitting-room, 
which it occupied from Monday m'orning until the coming 
of the Saturday night — the great family Bible placed 
thereon, while with countenances of corresponding gravi- 
ty, and well-balanced spectacles, the deacon and his wife 
read from its holy pages. 

Thus in all those outward observances of piety where- 
on the great eyes of the great world are staring, 1 have 
shown that the deacon and his good wife might challenge 
the closest scrutiny. Nor would I be understood to 



246 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

detract aught from these observances, or throw down one 
stone from the altars of our Puritan fathers. We need 
all the legacy they left their children. The force of 
good example is as boundless as the tares of sin — let us 
relax nothing which may tend to check the evil growth 
— and who shall say that the upright walk of Deacon 
Humphreys was without a salutary influence. 

But it is with the 'umcr man we have to do. The 
fairest apples are sometimes defective at the core. 



CHAPTER II. 
Gra^smere and its hiliahitaiits. 

Grassmere was a quiet, out-of-the-way village, hugged 
in close by grand mountains, and watered by sparkling 
rivulets and cascades, which came leaping down the hill- 
sides like frolicksome Naiads, and then with a murmur 
as sweet as the songs of childhood, ran off to play bo-peep 
with the blue heavens amid the deep clover-fields, or 
through banks sprinkled with nodding wild-flowers. 

A templing retreat was Grassmere to the weary man 
of business, whose days had been passed within the brick 
and mortar walks of life, and whom the fresh air, and 
the green grass, and the waving woods, were but as a 
page of delicious poetry snatched at idle hours. Free 
from the turmoil and vexations of the city, how pleasant 
to tread the down-hill of life, surrounded by such peace- 
ful influences as smiled upon the inhabitants of Grass- 
mere, and several beautiful cottages nestling in the valley, 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 247 

or dotting the hill-side, attested that some fortunate man 
of wealth had here cast loose the burthen of the day, to 
repose in the quiet of nature. 

Although our story bears but slightly save upon three 
or four of the three thousand inhabitants of Grassmere, I 
will state that a variety of religious opinions had for 
several years been gradually creeping into this primitive 
town, and that where once a single church received the 
inhabitants within one faith, there were now four houses 
of worship, all embracing different tenets. But the 
deacon walked heavenward his own path, shaking his 
skirts free from all contamination with other sects, whom, 
indeed, he looked upon as little better than heathen. 

The pastor of the church claiming so zealous a mem- 
ber, was a man eminent for his Christian benevolence. 
His was not the piety which exhausted itself in words — 
heart and soul did he labor to do his Master's will, and 
far from embracing the rigid views of the worthy Deacon 
Humphreys, he wore the garb of charity for all, and in 
his great, good heart loved all. 

He had one son, who, at the period from whiich my 
story dates, was pursuing his collegiate course at one of 
our most popular institutions, and in his own mind the 
deacon had determined that Hubert Fairlie should be- 
come the husband of his only daughter, Naomi. In 
another month Hubert was to return to pass his vacation 
at Grassmere, and Naomi looked forward to the meeting 
with unaffected pleasure. They had been playmates in 
childhood, companions in riper years ; but love had 
nothing to do with their regard for each other, yet the 
deacon could not conceive how friendship alone should 



248 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

thus unite them. At any rate Naomi must be the wife 
of Hubert — that was as set as his Sunday face. 

The deacon was a man well oil' in worldly matters. 
He owned the large, highly cultivated farm on which he 
lived, as also several snug houses within the village, 
which rented at good rates. 

But the little cottage at Silver Fall was untenanted. 
Through the inability of its former occupant to pay the 
rent, it had returned upon the hands of the deacon, and 
although one of the most delightful residences for miles 
around, had now been for several months without a 
tenant. 

A charming spot was Silver-Fall, with its little dwell- 
ing half hidden by climbing roses and shadowy maples. 
Smooth as velvet was the lawn, with here and there a 
cluster of blue violets clinging timidly together, and 
hemmed by a silvery thread of bright laughing water, 
which, within a few rods of the cottage-door, suddenly 
leaped over a bed of rocks some twenty feet high, into 
the valley below. This gave it the name of Silver-Fall 
Cottage — all too enticing a spot it would seem to remain 
long unoccupied. Yet the snows of winter yielded to 
the gentle breath of spring, and the bright fruits of sum- 
mer already decked the hedge-rows and the thicket, ere 
a tenant could be found, and then there came a letter to 
Mr. Humphreys from a widow lady living in a distant 
city, requiring the terms on which he would lease his 
pretty cottage. 

They were favorable, it would seem, to her views, and 
in due time Mrs. Norton, her daughter Grace, and two 
female domestics, arrived at Silver-Fall. 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 249 

CHAPTER III. 

One Fold of the Curtain draivn back. 

A new comer in a country village is always sure to 
elicit more or less curiosity, and Mrs. Norton did not 
escape without her due share from the inhabitants of 
Grassmere. With telegraph speed it was found out that 
she was a lady between thirty and forty years of age, 
dressed in bombazine, and wore close mourning caps. 
Miss Norton was talked of as a slender, fair girl, with 
blue eyes, and long, flowing curls, and might be seven- 
teen, perhaps twenty — of course, they could not be strict- 
ly accurate in this matter. 

Bales of India matting were unrolled in the door-yard 
— crates of beautiful china unpacked in the piazza — sofas 
and chairs crept out from their rough traveling cases, 
displaying all the beauty of rosewood and damask, until 
finally by aid of all these means and appliances to boot, 
Mrs. Norton and her daughter were pronounced very 
genteel — but — 

" But, I wonder what they are !" said Mrs. Humphreys 
to the deacon, as talking over these secular matters she 
handed him his second cup of coffee. 

Not that the good lady had any doubt of their being 
bona fide flesh and blood ; neither did she believe they 
were witches or fairies who had taken up their abode at 
Silver-Fall. " I wonder what they are /" must therefore 
be interpreted as ^'' I wonder what church they attend ^^"^ 
or " what creed they profess.^^ 
16 



250 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

The deacon shook his head and looked solemn. 

" It is to be hoped," continued Mrs. Humphreys, com- 
placently stirring the coffee, " that at her period of life 
Mrs. Norton may be a professor of some kind." 

The deacon dropped his knife and fork — he was 
shocked — astounded. 

" I am surprised to hear you speak thus lightly, Mrs. 
Humphreys — a professor of some kind ! Is it not better 
that she should yet rest in her sins, than to be walking 
in the footsteps of error — a professor of some kind I Wife 
— wife — you forget yourself!" exclaimed the deacon. 

" I spoke thoughtlessly, I acknowledge," answered 
Mrs. Humphreys, much confused by the stern rebuke of 
her husband. " I meant to say, I hoped she had found 
a pardon for her sins." 

" Have you forgotten that you are a parent?" contin- 
ued the deacon, solemnly. " Can you suffer the ears of 
your daughter to drink in such poison ! A professor of 
some kind 1 Naomi, my child," placing his hand on the 
sunny head before him, " beware how you listen to such 
doctrine ; there is but one true faith — there is but one 
way by which you can be saved. Go to your chamber, 
and pray you may not be led into error through your 
mother's words of folly !" 

But there were others at Grassmere most anxiously 
wondering, like good Mrs. Humphreys, " what they 
were,''^ ere they so far committed themselves as to call 
upon the strangers. Sunday, however, was close at 
hand ; Mrs. Norton's choice of a church was to determine 
them the choice of her acquaintance. 

Does the reader think the inhabitants of Grassmere 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 251 

peculiar ? I think not. There are very many just such 
people not a hundred rods from our own doors. 

Unfortunately, on Sunday the rain poured down in 
torrents. Nothing less impervious than strong cowhide 
boots — India-rubber overcoats, and thick cotton um- 
brellas, could go to meeting, consequently, Mrs. Norton 
staid at home, and on Monday afternoon, after the wash- 
ing was done, and the deacon had turned his well satur- 
ated hay, Mrs. Humphreys put on her best black silk 
gown and mantilla, her plain straw bonnet, wiih white 
trimmings, and walked over with her husband to Silver- 
Fall cottage. As the widow rented her house of ihem, 
they could not in decency, they reasoned, longer defer 
calling upon her. 

A glance within the cottage would convince any one 
that Mrs. Norton and Grace were at least persons of 
refinement — for there is as much character displayed in 
the arrangement of a room as in the choice of a book. 

Cream-colored mattings, and window-curtains of trans- 
parent lace, relieved by hangings of pale sea-green silk, 
imparted a look of delicious coolness to the apartments. 
There was no display of gaudy furniture, as if a cabinet 
warehouse had been taken on speculation — yet there 
was enough for comfort and even elegance ; nor was 
there an over exhibition of paintings — one of Cole's 
beautiful landscapes, and a few other gems of native 
talent were all ; nor were the tables freighted as the 
counter of a toy-shop ; the only ornament of each was a 
beautiful vase of Bohemian glass, filled with fresh garden 
flowers, whose tasteful arrangement even fairy hands 
could not have rivaled. 

The few moments they were awaiting the entrance of 



252 THE CUKTAIN LIFTED. 

Mrs. Norton were employed by Mrs. Humphreys in taking 
a rapid survey of all these surroundings, the result of 
which was to impress her with a sort of awe for the 
mistress of this little realm. 

" My stars !" said she, casting her eyes to the right 
and left, half rising from the luxurious couch to peep into 
one corner, and almost breaking her neck to dive into 
another, " my stars, deacon, if this don't beat all I ever 
did see !" 

But the deacon, with an air worthy of a funeral, shook 
his head, closed his eyes, and muttered, 

" Vanity — vanity !" 

The door opened, and Grace gliding in, sweetly 
apologized for her mother, whom a violent headache 
detained in her apartment. 

" Well, I do wish I knew what they were !" again 
exclaimed Mrs. Humphrey, as she took the deacon's arm 
and plodded thoughtfully homeward. 

Then going to a dark cupboard under the stairs, she 
rummaged for some time among the jars and gallipots, 
and finally producing one marked " Kaspberry Jam," she 
told Naomi to put on her Sunday bonnet, and carry it to 
the cottage, and — 

" Naomi, you may just as well ask Grace Norton what 
meeting she goes to." 

Delighted to make the acquaintance of Grace, Naomi 
threw on her bonnet and tripped lightly to the cottage, 
thinking little, we fear, of her mother's last charge. At 
any rate, it was omitted, and so the night-cap of Mrs. 
Humphreys again threw its broad frilling over an unsat- 
isfied brow. 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 253 

In the morning the deacon received a very neat note 
from Mrs. Norton, requesting to see him upon business. 

" And now, my dear sir," said she, after the common 
courtesies of the day were passed, " I have taken the 
liberty to send for you to transact a little business for me. 
If not too great a tax upon your time, will you purchase 
a pew for me ?" 

The deacon grimly smiled, and rubbing his knee, 
replied. 

" Why, yes, Mrs. Norton, I shall be glad to attend to 
the matter. True, it is a busy season with us farmers, 
but the Lord forbid I should therefore neglect his busi- 
ness." 

" Do you think you can procure me one ?" asked Mrs. 
Norton. 

" O, I reckon so, for I am certain there are several 
pews now to be let or sold either." 

" And what price, Mr. Humphreys ?" 

" Well, I guess about sixty dollars ; and now I recol- 
lect, Squire Bryce wants to sell his — it is right alongside 
of mine, and I reckon my pew is as good for hearing the 
word as any in the meeting-house. I am glad, really I 
do rejoice to find you a true believer." 

" You mistake my church, I see," said Mrs. Norton, 
smiling, " I belong to a different denomination from the 
one of which as I am aware you are a professor." 

" Then," cried the deacon, rising hastily and making 
for the door, " excuse me — I — I know nothing of any 
other church or its pews. I cannot be the instrument of 
seating you where false doctrines are preached ! I — 
good morning, ma'am." 



254 THE CURTAm LIFTED. 

The widow sighed as the gate slammed after her visi- 
tor, but Grace burst into a merry fit of laughter. 

" How ridiculous !" she exclaimed; " was there ever 
such absurdity !" 

" Hush, hush, my dear child," said Mrs. Norton, " Mr. 
Humphreys is without doubt perfectly conscientious in 
this matter — we may pity, but not condemn such zeal in 
the cause of religion." 

" Do you call bigotry religion, mamma ? " asked 
Grace. 

"A person may be a very good Christian, Grace, and 
yet be very much of a bigot," answered her mother. 
" That such a spirit as Mr. Humphreys has just now 
shown may often be productive of more evil than good, 
I allow. His aim is to do good, but he adopts the wrong 
measures." 

" Why, mamma, one would have judged from his 
manner that we were infidels !" said Grace. 

" O no, my child, he did not really think that," replied 
Mrs. Norton, smiling at her earnestness. " He only felt 
shocked at what he deems our error — for he sacredly 
believes there can be no safety in any other creed than 
his own. Without the charity therefore to think there 
may be good in all sects, and lacking the desire to study 
the subject, or rather so much wedded to his belief that 
he would deem it almost a sin to do so, like an unjust 
judge, he condemns without a hearing. There are too 
many such mistaken zealots in every creed of worship. 
O, my dear child," continued Mrs. Norton, her fine eyes 
bathed in tears, " would that members of every sect 
might unite in love and charity to one another I They 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 255 

are all aiming alike to love and serve Christ, and yet 
take no heed to his commandment, ' Love ye one 
another /' " 

" Well, mamma, for the sake of his sweet daughter, 
Naomi, I can forgive the good deacon. I have never 
seen a more interesting face than hers, and her manners 
are as graceful and lady-like as if she had never seen the 
country," said Grace. 

" And most probably a great deal more so, my love," 
replied Mrs. Norton, "for nature can add a grace which 
courts cannot give. But I agree with you in thinkmg 
Miss Humphreys interesting; she is, indeed, so, and if 
her countenance prove an index of her mind, I think you 
may promise yourself a pleasing companion." 

But the deacon, it seems, was of a different way of 
thinking, and no sooner did he enter under his own roof, 
place his oak stick in the corner, and hang up his hat on 
the peg behind the door, than going into the kitchen 
where the good wife was busily employed preparing the 
noonday meal, assisted by Naomi, he made known with 
serious countenance, that he had discovered what they 
were at Silver-Fall cottage ! 

Of course, Miss Norton was not such a companion as 
they would choose for Naomi. True, she was a pretty 
girl, and Mrs. Norton a lady of faultless manners; but 
then so much the more danger, and therefore Naomi, 
though not forbidden, was admonished to beware of their 
new acquaintances. 



256 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

CHAPTER IV. > 
Love Passages. 

The summer passed, and in the bright month of Sep- 
tember, came Hubert Fairlie, to pass a few weeks 
beneath the glad roof of his parents, whose only and 
beloved child he was. 

Their warm welcome given, the first visit of Hubert 
was to Naomi. They met as such young and ardent 
friends meet after an absense of months, and Naomi soon 
confided to him her regret that her parents would not 
allow her to cultivate the friendship of Grace Norton, 
whom she extolled in such warm and earnest language, 
that Hubert found his curiosity greatly excited to behold 
one calling forth such high eulogium from the gentle 
Naomi. 

An evening walk was accordingly planned which 
would lead them near the cottage, hoping by that means 
to obtain a glimpse of its fair inmate. Fortune favored 
them. As they came within view of the cottage, a sweet 
voice was heard chaunting the Evening Hymn to the 
Virgin, and Hubert and Naomi paused to listen to as 
heavenly sounds as ever floated on the calm twilight air. 
Then as the song concluded, Grace herself siill sweeping 
her fairy fingers over the strings to a lively waltz, sprang 
out from the little arbor, and with her hair floating 
around her like stray sunbeams, her beautiful blue eyes 
lifted upward, her white arms embracing the guitar, and 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 257 

her graceful figure swaying to the gay measure like a 
bird upon the tree-top, tripped over the greensward. 

Among other amusements which the deacon held in 
great abhorrence was dancing, and Naonrii had been taught 
to look upon all such exhibitions as vain and sinful. 
Yet never, I may venture to say, did any pair of little 
feet so long to be set at liberty as did Naomi's — pat — 
pat — pat-ing the gravel-walk where they stood, urging 
their young mistress to bound through the gate and trip 
it with those other little feet twinkling so fleetly to the 
merry music. 

The cheeks of Grace rivaled the hue of June roses, as 
she suddenly encountered the gaze of a stranger ; but 
seeing Naomi, she hastened to greet her, and thereby 
hide her embarrassment. Naomi introduced her com- 
panion, and then Grace invited them to walk in the gar- 
den, and look at her fine show of autumn flowers. Min- 
utes flew imperceptibly, and ere they were aware, Hubert 
and Naomi found themselves seated in the tasteful parlor 
of the cottage listening to another sweet song from the 
lips of Grace. 

As this is not precisely a love tale, I may as well 
admit at once, that Hubert became deeply enamored of 
the bewitching Grace, and from that evening was a 
frequent and not unwelcome visitor — a fact which was 
soon discovered by the deacon, for noting that Hubert 
came not so often as was his wont to the farm, he set 
about to find out what could have so suddenly turned the 
footsteps of the young man from his door. 

Alas, for his hopes of a son-in-law in Hubert ! He 
found those footsteps very closely on the track of as 



258 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

dainty a pair of slippers as ever graced the foot of a 
Cinderilla. 

Nothing- could exceed his disappointment, save the 
pity he felt for his minister, whose son he considered 
rushing blindly into the snares of the Evil One. Nay, 
so far did he carry his pity as to warn Mr. Fairlie of the 
dereliction of Hubert. But when that worthy man 
reproved his uncharitableness, and acknowledged that 
he could hope for no greater earthly happiness for his 
son, than to see him the husband of so charming and 
amiable a girl as Grace Norton, the deacon was perfectly 
thunderstruck! It was dreadful — what would die world 
come to! In short almost believing in the apostacy of 
the minister himself, the deacon went home groaning in 
spirit, as much perhaps for the frustration of his own 
schemes, as for the "falling off," as he termed it of the 
reverend clergyman ! 

The swift term of vacation expired, and Hubert returned 
to college. His collegiate course would end with the 
next term, and then it was his wish to commence the 
study of the law. Mr. Fairlie was, perhaps, somewhat 
disappointed that his son did not adopt his own sacred 
profession ; but he was a man of too much sense lo force 
the decision of Hubert or thwart his wishes. He hoped 
to see him a good man whatever might be his calling; 
and if ever youth gave promise to make glad the heart 
of a parent, that youth was Hubert Fairlie. 

The intercourse between Grace and Naomi from this 
time almost wholly ceased, much to the regret of both. Yet 
such were the orders of deacon Humphreys, whose good- 
will toward the widow and her daughter was by no 
means strengthened by the events of the last four weeks. 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 259 

CHAPTER V. 
The Practical and Theoretical Christian. 

" Why, what have you done with Nelly, to-day ? " asked 
Mrs. Humphreys, of her washerwoman, who came every 
Monday morning, regularly attended by a little ragged, 
half-starved girl of four years old, whose province it was 
to pick up the close-pins, drive the hens off the bleach, 
and keep the kittens from scalding their frisky tails — 
receiving for her reward a thin slice_of bread and butter, 
or maybe, if all things went right, and no thunder-squalls 
brewed, or sudden hurricanes swept over the close-fold, 
a piece of gingerbread or a cookey. " What, I say, 
have you done with Nelly ? " 

" 0, ma'am, she has gone to school — only think of it, 
my poor little Nelly has gone to school! It does seem," 
continued Mrs. White, resting her arms on the tub, and 
holding suspended by her two hands a well-patched shirt 
of the deacon's, "it does seem as if the Lord had sent 
that Mrs. Norton here to be a blessing to the poor ! " 

" Humph ! " ejaculated Mrs. Humphreys, spitefully 
rattling the dishes. 

" Only think," continued Mrs. White, "she has given 
up one whole room in her house to Miss Grace, who 
has been round and got all the children that can't go to 
school because their parents are too poor to send them, 
and just teaches them herself for nothing! God bless 
her, I say ! " exclaimed the washerwoman, strenuously, 
her tears mingling with the soap-suds into which she 



260 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

now plunged her two arms so vigorously as to dash the 
creaming foam to the ceiling. 

Mrs. Humphreys was at once surprised and angry. 
She could not conceive why a lady like Mrs. Norton 
should do such a thing as to keep a ragged school, and 
that, too, without pay or profit. She had forgotten the 
words of our blessed Lord, " WAoso shall receive one 
such little child in my name, receiveth me,'''' or, " Inas- 
much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye 
have done it unto mey Charity alone, she argued in 
her selfish nature, could not have influenced Mrs. 
Norton to put herself to so much trouble for a troop of 
noisy, dirty, half-clothed children ! No, there must be 
some deeper motive — some sectarian object, perhaps, to 
be gained ; and, impressed with this idea, she said tartly, 

" I think it is a pretty piece of presumption in Mrs. 
Norton to come here and set herself up in this way, 
telling us as it were of our duty. She is a stranger, and 
what business is it of hers, I should like to know, 
whether the children go to school or not ! " 

" O, Mrs. Humphreys, indeed, I think the spirit of the 
Lord guides her ! " said Mrs. White. " Miss Grace 
came and asked me so humbly like, if I would let her 
teach my Nelly, and then kissed the little fatherless 
child so, so — that — that — 0, I could have worshiped 
her ! " and fresh tears streamed down the cheeks of the 
washerwoman. 

" Worship a fiddle-stick ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hum- 
phreys, out of all patience, " I know what she wants — 
an artful creature ; yes, she wants to make Nelly go to 
her meeting ! " 



THE CUETAIN LIFTED. 261 

Poor Mrs. White could not help smiling at the idea of 
attempting to form the religious creed of a child scarce 
four years old. 

" Well, if she will only make her as good as she is, I 
don't care ! " she answered, " for the Bible says, ' By 
their fruits ye shall know them ! ' " 

Mrs. Humphreys was more and more shocked at this. 
She whispered it to Mrs. Smith, who whispered it to 
Mrs. Jones, who told Mrs. Brown, who told all the 
society, that the Nortons were wicked, designing people, 
come into the village to stir up schism in the church ! 
Yet all sensible persons applauded the good deed of the 
widow, and cheerfully aided her efforts. The little 
school prospered even more than she had dared to hope ; 
the children were cheerful and happy, and those whose 
parents could not afford them decent clothing, were 
generously supplied by Mrs. Norton — and many a heart 
blessed the hour which brought her among them. 

As the thunder which suddenly rends the heavens, 
when not a cloud on the blue expanse has heralded the 
coming storm, was the calamity which now as suddenly 
burst over the head of Mrs. Norton. 

She retired at night to her peaceful slumbers, sup- 
posing herself the mistress of thousands. With the 
early dawn there came letters to the cottage, telling her 
that her worldly possessions were swept from her. The 
man to whose care her fortune was entrusted, had basely 
defrauded her of every cent, and now a bankrupt, had 
fled to a foreign land. 

The stroke was a severe one. She must have been 
divine to have resisted the first shock which the tidings 
caused her. But that over, like a brave and noble 



262 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

spirit she rose to meet it. Her treasures were not all of 
earth — in heaven her hopes were garnered; and, al- 
though henceforth her path in life might be in rougher 
spots, and through darker scenes than it had yet 
traversed, to that heaven she trusted to arrive at last. 

It happened, unfortunately, that the half-yearly rent of 
the cottage became due that very week ; and Mrs. 
Norton, thus suddenly deprived of her expected funds, 
had no means to meet it. Where should she raise two 
hundred dollars ! Her courage, however, rose with her 
trials. A little time to look into her affairs — a little time 
to form her plans for the future, and she doubted not she 
should be able to liquidate the debt. Unused to asking 
favors, she yet courageously went to Mr. Humphreys, 
and stating candidly her inability to meet the rent-, 
requested a few weeks indulgence. 

The deacon was not caught napping. Evil news 
always travels with seven-league boots — and long ere 
Mrs. Norton knocked at the door of the farm-house, it 
was known throughout the village that her fortune was 
gone. 

Now the deacon, good man that he was, was " given 
to idols,^^ and Mammon was one. Moreover, he owed 
the widow a grudge, as we already know, and the old 
leaven of sin was at work beneath the crust of piety. 

He was accordingly well prepared to receive her. 
And sorry, very sorry was the worthy deacon, but he 
had just then a most pressing necessity for the rent — he 
really must have it, if not in cash, perhaps Mrs. Norton 
might have some plate to dispose of; he would be 
happy to oblige her in that way, for the Lord forbid he 
should deal hard with any one — but, the amount must 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 263 

be paid when due. Wait he could not — and if the rent 
was not foTthcoming- on the day stipulated in the con- 
tract — why — why — he was very sorry — but he should 
be obliged to take other measures, that was all! 

Mrs. Norton soiled not her lips by making any reply 
to this Christian Shylock — no expostulation or entreaty 
— but coldly bowing, she took her leave. 

As soon as she reached home she sent for a silver- 
smith, brought out her valuable tea-set — doubly so from 
having been the marriage gift of her father, requested its 
apprisal, and then duly attested as to its weight and 
purity, it was forwarded to the clutches of the deacon. 

Mrs. Norton met with a great deal of sympathy in her 
misfortunes. During the few months she had resided 
among them, the villagers had all learned to love and 
respect her. Even the poor came from their humble 
homes, and with looks of sympathy and outstretched 
hands tendered their offerings — their hard earned wages 
to the kind lady who had taught their little ones ; they 
would work for her — they would do any thing to serve 
her. With a sweet smile Mrs. Norton put back their 
grateful gifts, and thanked them in gentle tones for their 
love — to her a far more acceptable boon than gold could 
buy. 

Again Silver-Fall cottage fell back on the hands of its 
owner. 

Dismissing her attendants, Mrs. Norton took a smaller 
and cheaper house. Her choice and beautiful furniture 
she sold, only retaining sufficient to render her now 
humble residence comfortable. The avails of the sale 
amounted to several hundred dollars — enough at any 
rate, she deemed, for present necessities, while she 



264 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

trusted in the meantime to find some means of subsist- 
ence by which she and Grace might support themselves. 

What more noble spectacle, than an elegant, refined 
woman thus meeting, uncomplaining and cheerfully, the 
storm of adversity. 

And Grace, too — sweet Grace — sang like a skylark, 
and made her little white hands wonderfully busy in 
household matters. Hubert Fairlie was yet absent, 
though his long and frequent letters brought joy to the 
heart of his beloved. 

And had Naomi forgotten her friend in this season of 
trial ! Not so ; yet forbidden as we have seen from the 
society of Grace, all she could do was to sympathize 
deeply in spirit, happy when a chance opportunity 
brought them together; and those meetings although 
rare, only served to strengthen the friendship which 
united these two lovely girls. 



CHAPTER VI. 
The Pestilence. The Curtain wholly Lifted. 

It was now the middle of October. 

" Filled was the air "with a dreamy and magical light, and the land- 
scape 
Lay as if new created, in all the freshness of childhood : 
All sounds were in harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play — the crowing of cocks in the farm-yard, 
Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love," 

when suddenly the Angel of Death folded his dark 
wings, and sat brooding over the peaceful, pleasant vil- 
lage of Grassmere. 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 265 

A terrible and malignant fever swept through the 
town, spreading from house to house, like the fire which 
consumes alike the dry grass and the bright, fresh 
flowers of the prairies. Old and young, husband, wife 
and child, were alike brought low. There were not left 
in all the village those able to attend upon the sick. 
From the churches solemnly tolled the funeral bells, as 
one by one, youth and age, blooming childhood and 
lovely infancy, were borne to the graveyard — no longer 
solitary — for the foot of the mourner pressed heavily over 
its grass-grown paths. 

Still the contagion raged, until the selfishness of poor 
human nature triumphed over the promptings of kindness 
and charity. People grew jealous of each other ; neigh- 
bor shunned neighbor ; ^ 

" Silence reigned in the streets — 

Kose no smoke from the roofs — gleamed no lights from the win- 
dows," 

save the dim midnight lamp which from almost every 
house betokened the plague within. 

None had shut themselves up closer from fear of 
infection than Deacon Humphreys. His gates grew 
rusty, and the grass sprang up in the paths about his 
dwelling. And yet the Destroyer found him out, and 
like a hound long scenting its prey, sprang upon the 
household with terrible violence. 

First the pure and gentle Naomi sank beneath the 
stroke, and ere the setting of the same day's sun, Mrs. 
Humphreys herself was brought nigh the grave. 

Like one demented, pale with agony and terror, the 
deacon rushed forth into the deserted streets to seek for 
aid. His dear ones — his wife and child were perhaps 
17 



266 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

dying; where, where should he look for relief — where 
find some kind hand to administer to their necessities. 

At every house he learned a tale of wo equal to his 
own. Some wept while they told of dear ones now lan- 
guishing upon the bed of pain, or bade him look upon 
the marble brow of their dead. Others grown callous, 
and worn-out with sorrow and fatigue, refused all aid, 
while some, through excess of fear, hurriedly closed their 
doors against him. 

Thus he reached the end of the village, and then the 
small, neat cottage of Mrs. Norton met his view, nestling 
down amid the overshadowing branches of two venerable 
elms. From the day he had almost thrust her from his 
gate, with cold looks and unflinching extortion, Mrs. 
Norton and the deacon had not met, and now the time 
had come when he was about to ask from her a favor 
upon which perhaps his whole earthly happiness might 
rest — a favor from her, whom in his strength and her 
dependence he had scorned. Would she grant it ? He 
hesitated; would she not rather, rejoicing in her power 
now, revenge the slights he felt he had so often and so 
undeservedly cast upon her. But he remembered the 
sweet, calm look which beamed from her eyes, and his 
courage grew with the thought. 

Putting away the luxuriant creeper which wound itself 
from the still green turf to the roof of the cottage, hang- 
ing in graceful festoons, and tinged with the brilliant 
dyes of autumn, seemed like wreaths of magnificent 
flowers thus suspended, the deacon knocked hesitatingly 
at the door. 

It opened, and Mrs. Norton stood before him, pale 
with watching — for, like an angel of mercy had she 



THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 267 

passed from house to house, since the first breaking out 
of the scourge. In fahering accents he told his errand ; 
and, 0, how like a dagger did it pierce his heart, when,, 
with a countenance beaming with pity and kindness, and 
speaking words of comfort, the widow put on her bonnet 
and followed him with fleet footsteps to his strickea 
home. 

All night, like a ministering angel, did she pass from 
one sick couch to the other, tenderly soothing the ravings 
of fever, moistening their parched lips with cool, refresh- 
ing drinks, fanning their fevered brows, and smoothing 
the couch made uneasy by their restless motions. 

Unable to bear the scene, the deacon betook him in his 
hour of sorrow to his closet, where all through the dreary 
watches of the night he prayed this cup of affliction 
might pass from him. His heart was subdued. He saw 
that like the proud Pharisee he had exalted himself, 
thanking God he was not as other men. 

At early dawn came Grace also to inq[uire after her 
suffering Naomi, and finding her so very ill, earnestly 
besought her mother that she might be allowed to share 
the task of nursing her. Mrs. Norton had no fears for 
herself, yet when she looked at her only and beautiful 
child, she trembled; but her eyes fell upon the bed 
where poor Naomi lay moaning in all the delirium of 
high fever, and her heart reproached her for her mo- 
mentary selfishness. Removing the bonnet of Grace, 
she tenderly kissed her pure brow, and then kneeling 
down, with folded hands she prayed, "Thy will, O 
Lord, not mine be done ! Take her in thy holy keeping, 
and do with her as thou seest best ! " 

From that day Grace left not the bedside of her 
friend. 



268 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 

On the third day Mrs. Humphreys died. Her last 
sigh was breathed out on the bosom of the woman whom 
she had taught her daughter to shun. For many days it 
seemed as if Death would claim another victim ; yet 
God mercifully spared Naomi to her bereaved father ; 
very slowly she recovered, but neither Mrs. Norton nor 
Grace left her until she was able to quit her bed. 

With the death of Mrs. Humphreys, the pestilence 
staid its ravages, while, as a winding-sheet, the snows of 
winter now enshrouded the fresh-turned clods in the 
late busy grave-yard. 

The eyes of Deacon Humphreys were opened. He 
became an altered man. He saw how mistaken had 
been his views, and that it is not the profession of any 
sect or creed which makes the true Christian, and that if 
all are alike sincere in love to God, all may be alike 
received. 

I have said this was no love tale, therefore, by merely 
stating that in the course of a twelvemonth Hubert 
Fairlie and Grace were united, I close my simple story. 



THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 269 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 

CHAPTER I. 

In the reign of Kien-lung, 1736, the Ladrone Islands on 
the coast of China were infested with vast hordes of the 
most desperate and daring pirates. Large squadrons 
were fitted out from these islands even under the very 
eyes of government, and boldly proceeded to sea to com- 
mit their daring piracies. They were a terror not only 
along the coast of Cochin-China, but even to the shores 
of Formosa, and, indeed, so daring were they as to have 
at one time anchored a fleet of nearly eight thousand 
war junks in a bay near Canton. 

They were commanded by a bold and, desperate out- 
law, named Ching-yih, who, availing himself of the 
cupidity of these desperadoes, as a means to encourage 
their cruelty and the terror of his own name, is said to 
have paid each man ten taels for the head of every pris- 
oner brought before him. But at length this terrible 
Ching-yih was accidentally drowned, and his widow 
Kea-she assumed the command of the whole piratical 
force. Her courage and her cruelty were worthy of her 
deceased consort, for, if possible, under her dominion this 
horde of bucaneers became even more formidable. This 
is a rare instance in the annals of Chinese history, where 
the female sex are held is such contempt and derogation, 
that men, and those, too, of the most lawless and des- 
perate character have held themselves in subjection to a 
woman — but such was the fact. 



270 THE MAID OF OHE-KTANG. 

Two sons alone were the offspring of Ching-yih and 
Kea-she ; as different in their characters as is the wild 
mountain torrent, foaming and raging on its devastating 
course, from the gentle stream which glides so peace- 
fully through its verdant banks, sprinkled with the flow- 
ers which its own revivifying power has called forth. 
Lon-chi, the eldest partook of all the ferocity and cruel 
daring of his parents. No sooner was he old enough to 
wield the bow, or handle the pike, than he fearlessly fol- 
lowed in the train of the outlaws, claiming only as a 
reward for any display of youthful courage, the boon of 
torturing vnth his oion hands the victims whose unhappy 
destiny had placed them in their power. Such was 
Lon-chi — but how different the youthful Kon-chi ! Grace- 
ful and beautiful as Adonis, he was brave, noble and 
generous. He turned sorrowing away from the daily 
scenes of bloodshed he was compelled to behold, and 
although in the cause of justice, or for his country's 
glory, he would have shone the bravest of the brave, he 
now shunned as much as he abhorred the life of these 
island bucaneers. 

From his earliest childhood Kon-chi had manifested 
an engrossing earnestness for literature. The works of 
Confucius, of Mencius, and other eminent scholars of the 
Celestial Empire, w^ere ever in his hands, and their 
principles and precepts he adopted and cherished as his 
rule of conduct. Although the habits and disposition of 
Kon-chi were so much the reverse of that bold and 
bloody commerce which for many successive generations 
had distinguished the race of Ching-yih, it was only for 
him that the tender nature of woman ever humanized the 
heart of his mother Kea-she. Fondly did she love him 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 271 

— there was a charm, a soothing influence in the society 
of this her youngest boy, which, falling like the gentle 
rain from heaven, insensibly seemed to soften that arid 
and flinty soil which had choked up those springs of 
tender affections and sympathies wont to gush forth so 
beautifully in the heart of woman. There were times, it 
is true, when she urged and even commanded him to 
abandon his books — to quit the listless and inactive life 
he led, for the turmoil and bloody scenes of piratical 
warfare ; yet in a few hours she would forget both her 
commands and threats, and seek only the means to ad- 
vance still farther the peaceful pleasures of her son. She 
furnished him with the most liberal sums of money that 
he might prosecute his desire for travel and improve- 
ment ; she caused to be constructed for his use one of 
the most beautiful barges which ever floated on the 
Chinese waters ; and gave to his command a band of 
trusty men chosen by himself from among the horde — 
men who were human, and who gladly turned from the 
life to which force and fear had alone consigned them, to 
submit themselves to the more congenial authority of 
Kon-chi. 

In proportion as Kea-she loved and indulged her 
youngest son did the heart of the elder, Lon-chi, increase 
in bitterness and hatred to his brother. He embraced 
every opportunity to revile and insult him — encouraged 
also the sneers and jests of his familiars at the cowardly 
and pusillanimous nature of Kon-chi, and strove by every 
means to anger his dignified forbearance. 

At length the latter voluntarily banished himself 
almost entirely from the Ladrones — only returning 
occasionally to gladden the eyes of his mother, for whom 



272 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 

he felt filial love and sorrow, yet un mingled with that 
respect which binds the heart of the son to a mother so 
closely, and which if destroyed^ alas, how humbling the 
situation of that mother in the eyes of a noble and up- 
right child ! 

Kon-chi accordingly visited the great cities of the 
Empire — made himself acquainted with their arts and 
sciences ; and also took great delight in the more hum- 
ble scenes of rural life. He visited Japan, and other 
contiguous isles, and after an absence of more than a 
year returned once more to his native isle to embrace his 
mother. 

He arrived on the bridal eve of his brother. The 
haughty Hoo-she, daughter of the next chieftain in com- 
mand to himself, was the bride, and entertainments of 
the most magnificent nature were in preparation. The 
sound of drums, trumpets and gongs, mingled with the 
softer notes of flutes and stringed instruments, echoed 
from cliff to clifl', and from fortress to fortress through 
those rocky isles, and stole afar out over the waters, now 
bathed in the first beams of the rising moon. Gorgeous 
palanquins hung around with lanterns of every form and 
color, resembling fish, birds and serpents, and borne by 
carriers dressed in the gayest and most fantastic fashion, 
with bands of music at their side — banners flying on 
which were portrayed geese and ducks, while the living 
birds themselves were borne in front in golden cages — 
were already issuing forth from the brilliantly illuminated 
fortress of Kea-she, to escort the bride elect to the dwell- 
ing of the fierce Lon-chi. 

Kon-chi mingled not with these festivities, but sought 
the presence of his mother. Kea-she received him with 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 273 

kindness, but apparently the scenes going on around her, 
in which her eldest son bore so conspicuous a share, had 
aroused the spirit of vanity and ambition within her. 
After a slight conversation, in which affection bore but 
little share, she in a more stern and haughty manner 
demanded of her son how long he was to continue a life 
so disgraceful to his birth and lineage — reproaching him 
with cowardice, and for concealing, under an affected 
taste for literature, only a craven and groveling spirit- 

" Behold thy brother Lon-chi," she continued ; " like 
the God of Thunder, when he frowns, he hurls down 
destruction and devastation on his enemies — with the 
flash of his eye they are consumed! Look forth — see 
from how many island peaks fearlessly waves the flag of 
our race ! And at yonder floating armament which 
covers our waters ! Does the blood of Ching-yih flow in 
your veins ? and are you not aroused to deeds of daring 
by the sight ? And listen — hear you not the sound of 
music ? and flashes not yonder brilliant array upon your 
eye? Yes, Lon-chi, the brave, weds with the dark-eyed 
Hoo-she, the loveliest daughter of our tribe." Then 
suddenly fixing her piercing gaze upon Kon-chi, who 
remained standing firm but respectful before his excited 
parent, she continued : " Kon-chi, you are not now to 
learn for the first time the laws which govern our mighty 
band, for they were taught you even in your earliest 
infancy, by the death struggles — by the piercing shrieks 
of those wretches who dared to disobey them ! ' Wo, 
then, to him,' says the great Ching-yih, ' who weds with, 
the daughter of a stranger ! wo to him who may look 
with pleased eye upon the charms of other than a 
daughter of our tribe ! Torture and death await the 



274 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG, 

criminal — torture the most horrible — death the most 
ignominious !' Then beware, Kon-chi, if, in thy life of 
indolence and fancied pleasure, thou list to the music of 
other voices than here might charm thine ear, or look 
with delight upon other eyes than here might meet thy 
glance — or if thou takest a stranger to thy bosom, then 
mark me, thou art doomed ! Not even the glory of 
calling Ching-yih father — Kea-she mother — can avert 
thy fate. Thy punishment shall be the more severe, 
that the illustrious example shall cause all future gene- 
rations to tremble and forbear !" 

The fears of Kea-she were, however, without founda- 
tion, for never yet had the heart of Kon-chi felt the 
influence of love. Many and beautiful were the maidens 
who had attracted his notice, but they were to him as 
the bright flashing stars — glorious and lovely to look 
upon — giving light and beauty to his path, yet leaving 
in his heart no trace that they had ever been. 



CHAPTER II. 

The crescent moon peered through the dark glossy 
foliage of the India fig and banian trees interspersed with 
the graceful yulan, which shadowed a lovely garden in 
the Province of Che-kyang. The air was heavy with 
the rich odor of the magnolia, ye-hiang-ho, azelia, orange 
blossoms, and countless fragrant shrubs — a fountain, 
encircled by a low marble balustrade crowned with jars 
of beautiful plants, sent forth the most soothing murmurs, 
while the gold and silver fish, sporting beneath the mir- 
rored surface, flashed like jewels in the moon's rays. A 



THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 2T5 

few yards from this lovely fountain, a flight of marble 
steps adorned with images, each bearing some fragrant 
shrub, led to a gentle eminence on which stood a pavil- 
ion hang with the most gorgeous silks wrought in taste- 
ful designs with thread of gold, and which seemed as if 
it were suspended within the gigantic branches of the 
rare ou-tong-chu, whose thousands of large snowy blos- 
soms exhaled the most delicious fragrance as they were 
gently swayed by the light evening wind. 

At one extremity of the pavilion the curtains were 
partially drawn aside, disclosing a view of the interior. 
The floor was paved with lapis-lazuli and white jasper, 
re-presenting birds, flowers, et cetera — large vases of the 
most exquisite designs were scattered here and there — 
the chairs and couches were covered with white satin, 
embroidered with the richest colors, while, in the centre, 
a small jet d''eau of perfumed water, dropping upon a 
pavement formed of the sonorous yu, so rare and valua- 
ble, caused a constant variety of agreeable sounds, as the 
humming of bees over beds of violets. 

Upon one of these couches reclined a fair young 
maiden. One small hand was pressed upon her lovely 
brow, from which the dark hair was drawn back and 
caught in the beak of a silYer fo7ig-koang, whose delicate 
wings shaded her temples as a vail, while the long glit- 
tering tail, studded with minute gems of emeralds and 
rubies, formed a most graceful and beautiful plume. 
The other hand rested upon a small musical instrument 
resembling a guitar, which, as the Chinese maiden 
carelessly swept the strings, gave forth sweet and mourn- 
ful sounds. Her little foot, encased in a jeweled slipper, 
twinkled like a star from the cushion on which it rested. 



276 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 

Apparently the thoughts of the maiden were soaring 
far away from the present scene, for twice had the name 
of Leet-sie been pronounced in a sweet voice by a young 
girl, who advanced gently from the more retired recesses 
of the pavilion, ere the former seemed aware of her 
presence. 

'' Thy voice, dear Ma-che, sounds sweet as the mur- 
muring of the dove. Methought our blessed Queen of 
Heaven whispered * Leet-sie,' and called me to her side." 

" Still so pensive, dear Leet-sie," answered the other 
maiden. " Why art thou now ever sad and tearful, and 
thy voice low and trembling, even as the strings of thy 
lute when the wind whispers through them ?" 

Leet-sie made no answer, but buried her face in her 
little hands. Ma-che continued : 

" Dost thou forget, my own Leet-sie, that when next 
yonder moon shall dance upon the waters of the Golden 
Lake, then with sounds of sweetest harmony — with flash- 
ing lanterns, and torches, whose brilliancy shall make 
the darkness hide itself beneath the waters of the Yellow 
Sea, thou wilt be borne from thy father's palace in a 
gorgeous palanquin, to become the bride of the great Kia- 
chan ? — of him whose eyes have even looked upon the 
face of the Emperor, nor yet been blinded by the dazzling 
glory ! From all the daughters of Che-kyang, thee hath 
he chosen for his consort — thee^ who can call the mighty 
warrior Long-han, father ! Then why are the stars of 
thy forehead darkened ? and why do those pearly eye-lids 
tremble ? Tell me, dear Leet-sie." 

The maiden was about to reply, when suddenly a low 
strain of music swept the air. Uttering an exclamation 
of delight, Leet-sie half rose from her seat, bent eagerly 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 277 

forward, and with one hand raised, as if to bespeak 
attention, remained listening to the notes. 

The strain ceased — and all was still. Then turning 
and throwing her arms around the neck of Ma-che, 
Leet-sie murmured : 

"Alas, what can I do? Listen, dear Ma-che, to my 
secret — but bury it in thy heart deep and forever. Hark ! 
again." 

And again a soft and gentle air mingled with the low 
music of the fountain. 

Quickly throwing a vail around her, Leet-sie, with 
trembling hand, caught up the lute, and timidly ran her 
fingers over the strings, which responded as though 
brushed by the wing of some frightened bird. A slight 
rustling was heard — a shower of white blossoms from the 
quivering branch of the ou-tong-chu fell around the en- 
trance of the pavilion, and a youth sank on his knees 
before the couch of Leet-sie ! 

Ma-che uttered a faint scream — drew her vail over her 
face — and fled timidly from the presence of the stranger 
youth. 



CHAPTER III. 

Long-han, the father of Leet-sie, was the most re- 
nowned warrior throughout all Che-kyang; indeed, the 
neighboring provinces of Fokien and Kiang-nan could 
boast no braver soldier. His name had rung even in the 
ears of the Emperor Kien-lung, who, as a reward, per- 
mitted him the honor of wearing the " yellow button^''^ 
allowed only to Princes of the Blood. Ten thousand of 



278 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANd. 

the bravest soldiers of Che-kyang were at his command. 
His palace, situated on the flowery borders of the beauti- 
ful lake Si-hou, was more sumptuous than that of the 
greatest mandarin in the province, while love and har- 
mony breathed the gentlest spirit of happiness through- 
out the interior of this luxurious abode. 

Only three moons had waned prior to the events last 
related, when Kon-chi, the son of the terrible pirate 
Ching-yih, in one of his rambles in this delightful pro- 
vince, had seen the loved Leet-sie, the only daughter of 
Long-han. 

In one of those beautiful pleasure boats, so adorned 
with flowers that they resemble some large and exquisite 
boquet floating on the limpid waters of the lake, had the 
females of Long-han's household embarked to enjoy the 
soft breeze which came wafted from the Yellow Sea 
across the spicy groves which shaded its borders. 

It was near the rainy season, when sudden and fre- 
quent storms arise ; and while yet the dip of the oars 
sounded in unison with the notes of flutes and other 
gentle wind instruments, one small dark cloud appeared 
as a speck upon the blue sky — the whole heavens were 
suddenly obscured — the wind seized the frail bark and 
tossed her like some fairy plaything upon the now foam- 
ing waters of the little lake. The thunder rolled, while 
the lightning, as in sport, flashed and danced across the 
angry heavens. The unskillful and frightened mariners, 
instead of endeavoring to guide the little boat, prostrated 
themselves on the deck, uttering prayers to the gods of 
storms and winds, while loud screams and sobs from the 
cabin mingled with the roar of the elements. At that 

O 

perilous moment a light bark, guided by one single hand, 



THE MAID OP CHE-KTANG. 279 

is seen rapidly sculling the foaming- waves, and soon 
reaches the doomed pleasure boat. Kon-chi springs on 
the deck — he seizes the abandoned rudder — his voice 
restores courage to the frightened sailors and comfort to 
the drooping females, who, totally forgetful in this hour 
of danger of that reserve to which custom dooms them, 
now cling tremblingly around him, and call upon him to 
save them. 

The eye of Kon-chi falls upon the unvailed counte- 
nance of Leet-sie, pale, yet beautiful as the fabled houri. 
His efforts redouble ; once more he turns to look upon 
the maiden, while love, more powerful than the elements, 
calms the terrors of Leet-sie, and aids the arm of Kon- 
chi to her rescue. The boat is soon safe by one of those 
massive galleries which here and there span the more 
narrow surface of the lake. He then falls upon his knee 
before the blushing maiden, imprints one kiss upon her 
hand, springs upon the galley and is gone. 

Already was the youthful Leet-sie promised in mar- 
riage to the great Kia-chan. In accordance with the 
arbitrary custom of the empire, Leet-sie had never looked 
upon the features of her future lord, yet, submissive to 
the will of her parents, she had unmurmuringly consent- 
ed to become the bride of Kia-chan. The most magnifi- 
cent presents had been showered upon the youthful 
beauty by the bridegroom elect. The richest silks from 
Persian looms — pearls and gems of rare and dazzling 
beauty — shawls from the vale of Cashmere — birds of 
exquisite plumage, confined in cages of silver-net, which 
continually poured forth the most enchanting notes — 
these and a thousand other rare and precious gifts were 
lavished upon the fair Leet-sie ; and already the luxuri- 



280 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 

ous apartments prepared in the mansion of Kia-chan 
seemed lonely without the presence of their young and 
beautiful mistress. As soon, therefore, as the pale fra- 
grant blossom of the double flowering almond should bud 
amid its spicy foliage, it was determined the impatient 
bridegroom should receive the trembling Leet-sie from 
the hands of her brave father. 

But alas, the sudden storm which had swept the calm 
surface of the lake had as suddenly disturbed that peace- 
ful tranquillity which had ever reigned in the pure bosom 
of the Chinese maid. No longer did she take delight in 
the splendors which surrounded her ; the voices of the 
singing birds had lost their power to charm, and seated 
in the midst of those gorgeous gifts which slaves were 
continually placing before her, Leet-sie remained silent 
and sad, her pale face bathed in tears ; yet whenever the 
gracful image of the brave youth who had rescued her 
from a watery grave flitted before her, her little heart 
fluttered, and those cheeks, before so pale, now vied in 
bloom with the blushing pomegranate. 

Again the daring Kon-chi kneels before Leet-sie, and 
gazes unreproved upon those charms which have destroy- 
ed his peace of mind forever, unless he can win the maid 
to his home in the Pirate Isles. Their vows of love are 
interchanged, and at length the daughter of the mighty 
Long-han consents to flee far from her father's palace, 
far from Kia-chan, who even then awaits his bride. 
Disguised in the most common garb, as attendant upon 
the handsome youth Kon-chi, Leet-sie is soon far beyond 
the confines of Che-kyang; a few days, and they are 
safe beyond pursuit amid the rocky defiles of the La- 
drones. 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 281 

Here, in a spot almost inaccessible to mortal footsteps, 
had Kon-chi already constructed a dwelling suitable for 
his lovely Leet-sie. He had caused to be borne thither 
the richest and most fragrant woods wherewith to rear 
his fairy palace. The doors and pillars were of sandal- 
wood, on which birds and flowers were exquisitely delin- 
eated with inlaid ivory. Silken hangings of delicate 
azure adorned the walls — couches, formed of silver fili- 
gree and pearl, were cushioned with satin of pale rose 
color — curtains of fine silver net-work, so flexible that 
with each breath of wind they moved gently to and fro, 
gleaming in the air as moonbeams on the water, were 
suspendedi^ver the doors and windows, and the little 
foot of the beautiful bride pressed only upon carpets of 
rich velvet. The sound of falling cascades and fountains, 
mingled with the sweet notes of birds, charmed the ear, 
while, as the mountain wind whispered through th^ 
branches of the superb flowering trees, which the love of 
Kon-chi had caused to be transplanted thither, it wafted 
to the senses an odor more delicious than the breath of 
June roses. 

A body of armed followers were ever at hand, and 
each rocky defile which led to this abode of love and 
happiness was guarded by a chosen troop ; for too well 
did Kon-chi know that notwithstanding the love with 
which his mother Kea-she regarded him, should she 
discover his retreat, his beloved Leet-sie would fall an 
instant victim to her wrath and the stern laws of the 
pirate horde. Twice, unarmed and alone, had Kon-chi 
visited the fortress where his mother held such absolute 
command over thousands of the wild and lawless pirates. 
He had been each time received with great kindness and 
18 



282 THE MAID OP CHE-KYANa. 

favor, which only seemed to rouse anew the bitter hatred 
that lay hidden in the heart of the wicked Lon-chi. 

Again did Kea-she urge upon Kon-chi to wed with 
one of the fair daughters of the tribe ; his renewed 
refusal seemed to kindle her suspicion and her anger, for . 
in a voice tremulous with rage, and eyes flashing defi- 
ance, she exclaimed : 

" Again I tell thee, Kon-chi, to beware ; for, by the 
head of Confucius I swear that should'st thou wed with 
a stranger maid, were she the daughter of the Emperor, 
the mighty Kien-lung, death to thee, and a torture worse 
than death to her, shall be thy reward !" 

And Kon-chi left the presence of his mother with 
dread forebodings at his heart, followed by the sneers and 
malicious eye of Lon-chi. 



CHAPTEE IV. 

A year of blissful happiness had rapidly flown over 
the youthful pair, when one day as Kon-chi was return- 
ing from a ramble through the interstices of the moun- 
tain, he several times fancied he detected the sound of 
footsteps close behind him ; but whenever he turned to 
look around him all was still ; the ring-dove flew from 
her nest amid the deep foliage of the Mo-wang, and the 
whizzing of pheasants, startled from their covert in the 
deep jungle, were the only sounds that met his ear. Still 
the fears of Kon-chi were aroused, and no sooner did he 
reach his peaceful dwelling than he ordered his follow- 
ers to scour the defiles in every direction, and bring to 
his presence any persons they might find lurking therein. 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 283 

Nor were his precautions vain, for scarce an hour had 
passed, ere one of the most daring of his brother's band 
was brought before him. Two of these outlaws had 
been discovered prowling within a few rods of Kon-chi's 
abode. One had unfortunately effected his escape ; the 
other, after a desperate resistance, and mortally wounded, 
was at length captured. Dogged and sullen, he stood 
before Kon-chi, refusing to answer every question that 
was put to him, and died at length, breathing only oaths 
and defiance toward his captors. 

"We must fly, star of my life," cried Kon-chi, press- 
ing Leet-sie to his bosom. " The hatred and jealousy 
of my wicked brother have at length discovered our 
retreat ; even now we may be too late !" 

Then ordering his men to proceed cautiously in ad- 
vance, and clasping the light form of Leet-sie in his 
arms, Kon-chi turned sorrowing away from the charming 
spot which had so long sheltered their loves. Wearily 
they began their descent down the steep mountain slopes. 
In a small cove, on the western side of the Ladrones, the 
beautiful traveling barge of Kon-chi was moored ; but, 
death to his hopes ! As the wide expanse of ocean burst 
on his view, he saw he was too late ; that his enemies 
already held possession of the only means of escape 
for his beloved Leet-sie. 

" Too late — too late !" he exclaimed ; " but on, my 
brave fellows. Strike down the pirate band !" 

Then placing the trembling Leet-sie in safety, and 
leaving a chosen guard around her, Kon-chi placed him- 
self at the head of his men, and, like a torrent, they 
rushed down the mountain to battle with the foe. The 
combat was short and decisive. Love nerved the arm of 



.^ 



^84 THE MAID OP CHE-KTANG. 

Kon-chi ; his valor inspired his followers with renewed 
courage, and in a short time scarce one of the pirates but 
lay weltering in blood upon the sands. Swiftly returning 
now to the trembling Leet-sie, Kon-chi again took her in 
his arms and bore her to the barge. The light sails were 
soon hoisted, and taking his station at the rudder, while 
the long oars were propelled by strong and willing hands, 
the fugitives directed their course for the shores of 
Cochin-China. But hardly had the barge proceeded a 
mile from the towering islands, when suddenly the rocky 
sides of the mountain seem alive with armed men pour- 
ing down toward the shore ; the sound of gongs, drums, 
and trumpets came wafted to their ears, while from every 
cove the armed junks and fast-boats of the pirates were 
rapidly approaching the barge. 

Two of these junks are larger than the others, whose 
brilliant decorations, gay silken awnings, with the red 
and black flag displayed from their masts, denote them 
to be those of Kea-she and the terrible Lon-chi. With 
every sweep of the oar the pirates gain upon the light 
boat of Kon-chi, and already was that commanded by 
Lon-chi within a few rods of the fugitives, when at the 
loud blast of a trumpet from the war-junk of Kea-she, 
the rowers of Lon-chi suddenly, with uplifted oars, re- 
main motionless — the junk of Kea-she is soon alongside 
that of her pirate son : 

" Leave the rebel to me !" she exclaimed ; " proceed 
no farther without my orders. I alone will deal with 
the wretched man. Back, I say, nor come between me 
and my vengeance." 

Then ordering all the other boats to lie on their oars, 
she w^as soon alongside of the flying barge ; and com- 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 285 

manding Kon-chi to lie to, this bold and daring woman 
fearlessly stepped on board. 

" Ungrateful, rebellious man," she cried, sternly re- 
garding Kon-chi, " down with your arms, and instantly 
surrender yourself my prisoner." 

" Not while I have life," replied her son, proudly; 
" you are now in my power ; either return at once to the 
deck of your own vessel, or yield as my prisoner !" 

" This to me, unworthy son of the brave Ching-yih ! 
This to thy mother and sovereign ! But listen, base 
boy — (shame upon me that the only love I ever felt even 
now stirs my heart, degenerate as thou art !) Tell me 
where is the unhappy wretch who hath lured the eaglet 
from the parent nest ? Bring her before me, that, as 
the fire of heaven, my eyes may strike her dead at my 
feet !" 

" Never, never will I yield my lovely Leet-sie to thy 
tyranny, cruel mother," replied Kon-chi. " No, sooner 
shall this dagger let out her pure and innocent heart's 
blood, than she shall be made to feel the vengeance of a 
cruel and heartless woman!" 

But there was a slight rustling as of silken garments, 
a faint sob, a light form tottered past Kon-chi, and throw- 
rng back her vail, Leet-sie, pale and trembling, fell at the 
feet of Kea-she, and lifted her glorious eyes to the stern 
countenance bent upon her : 

" Behold, mother of Kon-chi — behold the innocent 
cause of thy son's apostacy ! Strike — I await the dread- 
ful blow which separates me from my beloved ; but, oh, 
spare him — the young, the brave, the beautiful !" 

"Kneel not, dearest Leet-sie," cried Kon-chi, raising 



286 THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 

her to his breast. "Ask no mercy ; we will die as we 
have lived — united!" 

The eyes of the stern mother roved for a moment over 
the young and beautiful pair before her. Kon-chi stood 
firm and erect, nor quailed his eye under her fearful 
glance; one arm supported the light form of Leet-sie, 
who, clinging tremblingly around him, now gazed with 
love and tenderness into the countenance of her beloved, 
or lifted a timid, shuddering glance upon the cruel wo- 
man before her. 

For some moments no word was spoken ; the features 
of Kea-she gradually relaxed ; the light of pity and love 
stole over her countenance, as the sunbeams flashing on 
the harsh, rugged peaks of her mountain home. Motion- 
ing those around her to stand back, she advanced a few 
paces nearer to the unfortunate pair, and, in a tremulous 
voice, said : 

" My son, maternal love has conquered ! Depart 
quickly with thy lovely bride. Seek some foreign land, 
and there dwell in peace and happiness. My children," 
she added, " curse not the name of your mother V 

Kon-chi fell at her feet, and was about to reply, when 
there was a sudden and rapid dash of oars, and ere Kea- 
she could recover from her emotion, the terrible Lon-chi, 
with death and vengeance in his eye, and cimiter in 
hand, sprang on the deck, followed by a body of ruffians 
as ferocious as himself. 

" What means this daring intrusion, Lon-chi ? " ex- 
claimed Kea-she,. instantly resuming all her sternness 
and dignity; "did I not bid you await my orders? 
Retire then, instantly, to the boats, and return to the 



THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 287 

fortress. Know that I have pardoned thy brother ! How 
now — dare you rebel ?" 

Lon-chi turned to his men. There was a hoarse 
murmur of defiance, and each man placed his hand on 
his dagger ; then advancing to his mother, Lon-chi re- 
plied : 

" No, never will I leave this deck until yonder grovel- 
ling miscreant meets the death he merits. What ! shall 
he go unpunished for a crime which has already, cost the 
lives of some of our bravest men ? Seize him, brave 
boys, and strangle him before the eyes of his mountain 
dove!" 

" Advance one step at your peril," cried Kea-she, 
springing before the furious pirates, who were already 
closing around Kon-chi. " Back, I say, it is your sov- 
ereign commands !" 

" Heed her not, my gallant men; heed not a woman V 
cried Lon-chi, with a laugh and look of scorn. 

Kea-she raised her arm, while fury flashed from her 
eyes. 

" Seize the rebel !" she exclaimed, pointing to Lon- 
chi, " and bear him to the dungeon in the rocks !" 

Almost before the words were uttered, there was a 
flash, a report, and, with a low scream, the 'pirate chief- 
tainess fell dead upon the deck ! A bullet from the carbine 
of her son had pierced her heart ! 

For a few moments all was confusion; even the hearts 
of the ferocious pirates were awed and touched at the sud- 
den death of the daring woman who so oft had led them 
forth to conquest. Kon-chi seized the favorable moment, 
placed himself at the head of the pirates and rushed 
upon the parricide. Hand to hand the brothers fought 



288 



THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 






above the body of the murdered mother. All 
back to gaze upon this dreadful combat. It was soon 
decided — guilt and horror, as he viewed the pale bloody 
corse of his parent, paralyzed the arm of the wicked 
Lon-chi ; his dagger remained powerless in his hand, 
and, after a few faint struggles, he fell, mortally wounded 
by the hand of Kon-chi. 

Our story is ended. Suffice it only to say that Kon- 
chi, with. his beloved Leet-sie, reached in safety one of 
those sea-girt isles which " like to gems inlay " the 
bosom of the Pacific Ocean. 

Deprived of their bold and terrible leaders, the Ladrone 
pirates from this time ceased to be longer objects of 
terror. They were soon disbanded ; some formed them- 
selves into small hordes, and were taken and put to 
death; while others, joining the armies of the Emperor, 
were even promoted to high rank and power for their 
superior skill and bravery. 



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